And that should have been it: a story I told, giggling, to friends until the details faded, and he was just a boy whose name I didn’t remember. But I saw his name on my Facebook News Feed in a batch of photos our mutual friend had uploaded, and I couldn’t resist.

I clicked “Add Friend.” And one day, he messaged me.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I typed back. “How’s life?”

It went like this for days. But talking to him made me feel like a time traveler, spliced between the snowy paths of my campus and the darkened airplane we had shared. I was sitting in class or at meetings at the local campus cafe, doing my readings in the library, and then a message on my screen would tug me back. I didn’t like the way it upset my balance, how far away and powerless it made me feel.

There was also a girl at his school lurking in the background of his messages. Was he trying to make me jealous? Was he just not thinking clearly?

Mass media has a fascination with hookup culture among people around my age (21) meriting in-depth investigations and contentious opining about what it all means. But they often miss a simple fact: There’s nothing particularly new about trying to avoid getting hurt.

It’s just that my generation has turned this avoidance into a science, perfecting the separation of the physical from the emotional. We truncate whenever possible: texting over calling, meeting over apps rather than in person. We leave in the early morning without saying goodbye. Being casual is cooler than intimacy and vulnerability. Or so we think.

Having the last word was once a sign of one’s wit and smarts. It meant that your comment had gravitas and staying power. But today, having the last word is the ultimate in weakness: It means being the person who doesn’t merit an answer. Better to leave them hanging than risk the same happening to you. Keep it shallow so your heart isn’t on the line.