I was 27 when I met the man who would completely redefine my understanding of love.
David Robinson was 23, a former soldier with piercing blue eyes and the most wicked sense of humour.
He was also profoundly disabled, having been paralysed from the chest down in a terrible accident while serving in the Army, left unable to move his arms or legs.
I, meanwhile, was a trainee nurse on secondment to the Younger Disabled Unit in Leicester General Hospital, where he was having rehabilitation treatment.
Despite our differences, the moment we spoke there was electricity between us, the kind of rare, deep connection
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