I was sitting at the kitchen table of a hostel in Barcelona when another guest walked by, “Are you writing a postcard? I didn’t know people actually did that anymore.”

It’s definitely a disappearing practice amidst the ease of a text or email. But it’s one of my favorite love languages.

I bought the postcard the day before in Zurich, Switzerland. It was during an unexpected overnight delay to Spain. Instead of staying at the airport, I spent the day in the city’s Old Town, strolling slowly along the river Limmat and watching the clouds pass by the European rooftops.

I walked into a vintage shop and saw a beautifully illustrated postcard. I thought of the friend who dropped me off at the airport. She lives an hour away, but wanted to send me off as a way of being part of the journey with me. And she was part of the journey, randomly walking into my thoughts as I walked through cobblestone streets. So I bought the postcard to write to her.

When I travel, I’ll often find myself looking through a small shop and finding a card with beautiful art that reflects where I am and sitting down to write a short message to someone.

Sometimes I mail it out where I am, sometimes I hand it personally to them upon my return.

The space is limited, so every word counts. My word choices are always simple, but intentional. I can write something as plain as, “On my holiday and thought of you,” and it’s somehow enough. Postcards aren’t really meant for more than that. But at the same time, it’s so much more than that.

In between the lines, what a postcard says is that I’m here, far away in distance from you, but between all this time and space, I’m thinking of you. You’ve disrupted my thoughts enough for me to want to let you know that you’re in my thoughts. I haven’t much to say, but I want to say it to you.

And in between those lines, what a postcard says is, I love you.