Your own city name, offered after the search
Typing your town while you sign up, you now see "Searching…" under the line first. The offer to keep the name exactly as you wrote it, Use "Prag", waits for the search to come back. It arrives whether the search found places or found nothing, and never before the app has looked.
The gold mark in a new paragraph
Start a new paragraph in your manuscript and the small gold mark that asks you questions follows you down to it, rather than waiting a line above. Whatever it was asking comes along.
A clear page while you move a paragraph
While you hold a paragraph and carry it to a new place in your manuscript, the gold mark steps out of sight, so it no longer floats among the lines moving aside to make room. It returns once the paragraph has settled where you let go of it.
English manuscripts, switched off at once
If you once agreed to read manuscripts in English too and later tapped "Show only my language" in Match Preferences, the feed went on bringing English manuscripts anyway, one after another. That choice now takes hold at once: the English manuscripts you already had leave the feed, and the offer to read in English stays away when you ask for more.
Where you live, city first
Where do you live, signing up asks, and it now wants your city first — most people think of home as a town before they think of it as a country. When a small place will not turn up, the words under the line tell you what to do: give your country, then the city. A letter slipped in the middle or at the end of a word no longer ends the search. Germny still reaches Germany, and Berlni still reaches Berlin.
Account region under the city
Right under the city sits a new choice, the region of your account: Russia, or outside Russia. It arrives already set from the country you gave, and one tap changes it. Choose with care, because once you have signed up, changing it takes a message to support.
What you expect from Anketta
Near the end, just before the question about how you found Anketta, the app asks for a few words of your own: what you expect from Anketta, what it should feel like, and what other dating apps got wrong for you. Answer it to go on. Below it waits a question you can leave empty: what would make you say wow.
A deleted paragraph, in its own letters
Deleting a paragraph used to scatter letters it never held, as if the app were finishing your sentence on its way out. What lifts away now is the paragraph itself — its own letters, its commas, nothing that was not written there — and each letter gives a small shiver just before it goes. An empty paragraph lets go of the gray question it was asking.
A deleted drawing, in its own colors
A drawing you delete from your manuscript comes apart differently. It turns to fine dust in its own colors: the left edge goes grainy first, then the grains scatter and rise, while the rest of the picture still stands.
The question under the paragraph you are in
While you write, the line that asks you questions now keeps you company. Its small gold mark stays under the paragraph you are in, turning slowly while it has nothing to ask. Move up to an earlier paragraph and a moment later the mark sits under that one, instead of waiting at the bottom of the section, and the paragraph you moved to stays exactly where your eyes are. It asks only about what you have written since you got there, so opening an old section to reread it no longer brings a question.
A version number that takes a near miss
Five taps on the version number at the very bottom of the screen open the list of everything that has changed, and a tap just beside the number counts toward them now.
A line that asks one question
Stop for a moment while you are writing and a line appears under the part of the manuscript you are in. It asks one question about what you have just written — the thing a stranger reading it would want to know, and you did not think to say. You answer by writing; there is nowhere to reply, and nothing to close. Tap the line and it goes quiet, leaving a small gold mark at the end of the section. Tap the mark and it comes back.
Its voice runs out for the day
It never writes anything for you and never offers you a sentence to use. When a paragraph already says something only you could have said, it tells you so, briefly, and leaves you to it. Its voice runs out: after a number of questions in a day it goes hoarse and comes back tomorrow.
A deleted paragraph in loose letters
Delete a paragraph from your manuscript and it no longer just fades. The words come apart into loose letters that lift and drift off to the right, and the coming-apart travels from the left edge across, so the end of the sentence is still your own writing for the moment before it goes. What sits below holds a beat longer, then closes over the space.
The letters are the ones you write in
The letters are the ones you write in — a Russian manuscript comes apart into Russian, an English one into English. A drawing has no words to lose. It finds its own to lose, and goes out the same way everything written does.