The app initiates the correspondence every Thursday at 14:00 UTC. It doesn’t send our names. It doesn’t show faces.

“Still valid,” I say aloud, every week, like a ritual. A green checkmark.

My apartment knows I’ve said it. The curtains adjust for mood lighting. My fridge pings a bottle of something celebratory. I ignore it.

There’s no protocol for what comes next. The platform guarantees privacy, not guidance. I know your location only through a bounded zk-proof: you're in a city with a coastline and public transit rated B+ and median internet speed ≥150 Mbps. I've narrowed it down to 104 locations.

I take walks on Thursdays. Always near the sea. Just in case.

At 14:02, a proof of message receipt arrives. It’s not from you. It's from the platform, confirming that your node acknowledged my availability signal.

That means you’re still playing.

Sometimes I imagine you’re doing the same thing: walking by some harbor, watching tide schedules, half-smiling at street musicians.

We agreed, once, to keep it light.

No unverified contact. No data leaks. Nothing that might lock us into an identity we couldn’t explain to someone else.

Just the check-ins.

Just the idea.

Every week, I don’t cancel.

Every week, neither do you.

I’m not saying this is love.

I’m just saying it’s been 67 Thursdays.

And I’m still walking.