Conversations with him, on any topic, glimmered with unpredictability. He was more interested in the contents of my mind than anyone has ever been, before or since—totally absorbed in me. He wanted to know absolutely every detail about everything and everyone I mentioned. He had fascinating, unpredictable views on whatever topic came up, and he wrote really well: long, thoughtful emails. I had the impression that he was devoting all his attention to me, to the point of neglecting the rest of his life. After a while, he said he was curious to know more about me, and to know what I looked like, so I told him as much as I could without revealing my identity. He said he was falling in love with me—more strongly than he’d ever fallen for anyone before. I sent him a head-and-shoulders photo of myself. He replied saying he wouldn’t have minded whatever I looked like but that he was glad I was as beautiful as my emails. I loved that—the idea that my emails were attractive.

At that point, our correspondence became overtly romantic. We started to write to each other more erotically—nothing too graphic, but we talked a lot about love. And even when we tried to talk about other things, it always came back to love. He’d become my significant other: the only person in the world that I wanted to share anything with. I’d never experienced such an intense connection before. I was living with Adam, Sophie and Ethan, but there was no doubt that King Edward had taken over as my “significant other.” I couldn’t wait to get away from my family, any chance I got, so that I could read his latest email and reply to it.

We discussed the possibility of meeting, but by the time we got around to discussing it, I was terrified of putting it into practice. He admitted he was too. What we had seemed so perfect; we both feared we’d endanger it if we subjected it to the reality test. So we continued with the emailing—which was passionate and amazing and didn’t really feel like “not enough” in any way—for several more months.