Everything it does.
The whole list. It's short on purpose.
One question a day
Every morning there's one question waiting for the two of you. Some are silly, some are nosy, a few will start a conversation you didn't know you needed. You each answer on your own — and neither answer unlocks until you've both replied. No peeking. No copying homework.
Games that actually finish
How Well Do You Know Me. Who's More Likely. Trivia night with both phones buzzing in. Ten fresh questions a day, and every game ends with both your answers side by side — so you know exactly what to argue about, fondly.
Bingo, once a month
Twenty-five small things to do together, on a card that refreshes on the first. Cook something new. Take the long way home. Say the thing. Every square shows who checked it off, and five in a row is a pack of coupons.
A piece of them on your screen
Home-screen widgets with their latest answer, the next big day, how you're both doing — glanceable, without opening anything. The nicest thing you'll see between meetings.
Every picture, one place
Memories holds all of it: the photo pact (one photo of anything and one of your face, every day, for a year you couldn't make on purpose), the photo booth strips, the gallery, and whatever else you two put there. Tap a doodle and it draws itself back in front of you, the way it was drawn.
Trip Mode
One of you switches it on when they leave. A dot lands on your map each time they open the app, the other one gets a push for every dot, a countdown to the day they're back, and a little celebration when they walk in. Nothing tracked in the background; every dot is rounded to about a block.
And the small stuff that adds up
The things you'll actually use on a Tuesday.
One tap to say how you're doing, from seventy-two of them. Loved, cozy, touched out, hungover. Saves a lot of typing.
Little letters, sealed for ten minutes or a hundred years. No read receipts, no pressure.
A thread with exactly one person in it. Nothing else competing for it.
A line for when words are hard, a voice for when they aren't, a face for when nothing else will do.
Press and hold, both of you, on two phones. It buzzes when you're both there. Works from the couch or from another country.
Anniversaries, birthdays, the running count. In here, anyway — the real count is yours.
It counts the days you both showed up, and it hands you freezes for the busy ones.
Earned by answering, sending, showing up. Spent on your home. They mean nothing and everything, which is the point.
Sunday at eight, both phones: the days you both answered, your top moods, one question read back with both answers, and everything else that happened.
Three lists, one rule: nothing joins until you've both said yes. Search finds it as you type.
Every thank-you is a heart dropped into a fluted vase. Five in, a rose opens. A dozen roses is the goal.
Pins for the places that mattered, by address or by holding your thumb where it happened, and they land where you put them.
Follows your phone, and you can pick the palette. Yes, there's a pink one.
Private by design
Built for exactly two people. Nothing public, nothing to perform, nobody watching. If it isn't for the two of you, it isn't in the app.
Location is optional, never tracked in the background, and never precise — a neighborhood at best, not an address. It only shows while you both share it, and either of you can stop it instantly, for both.
And if you're apart
This was built during a long-distance stretch, so the far-apart parts got real attention. The miles between you, live, if you both switch it on. Whispers that wait for them. Letters you write for a feeling rather than a date, opened on the day the feeling turns up. Trip Mode, so the one at home sees the dots and the countdown. And the thumb hug, which works exactly the same from another country as it does from the next room.
None of it needs you to be apart. All of it was designed by somebody who was.