In the summer of 1991, without social networks to tether us, I felt such heart-bursting longing for a woman I loved that I traveled across two countries and an ocean to make sure she would not wander out of my life. It was only in her absence, in a total vacuum away from her, that I was able to appreciate the depth of love I felt.

We met in March while I was still in college. She had recently graduated and was knocking around Peoria, Ill., her hometown, figuring out her next step. After two chance meetings, we began going out. Before long, we were rarely apart.

This was the old-fashioned way of falling in love: all of our attentions were on each other. We spent less time with our friends, who could not track the electronic footprints of our relationship. We didn’t have cellphones buzzing every five minutes, distracting us with nonessential chatter. Neither of us was tap-tap-tapping away, eyes downward, communicating with other people during meals.

The outside world fell away, and it became just us slowly unlocking each other’s secrets, dreams and opinions, which in those days were not posted on “walls” for anybody to casually scroll through. We felt we were the only two people in the world.

But our time together was coming to an end. Before we met, I had planned a summer backpacking adventure across Europe, and Joelle had been talking about a move to Chicago. I told her I would write while I was away, and I gave her the address of a friend in Wales, where I would be with my parents at the midpoint of my trip. It would be my only fixed location for the next eight weeks. Admittedly, no promises were made, but part of me felt as if our relationship would just resume when I came back.