# Confidential by design — write what you'd say in person > Anketta keeps your phone, email, and address quietly out of sight for anyone who hasn't matched with you. Write the part you'd usually leave out — the small private details that make a manuscript real — and the people who haven't earned them simply don't see them. Source: https://anketta.app/features/pii-blur Published: 2026-05-06 --- ## Why is this called confidential by design? Because it is the default, not a setting you remember to enable. Every word you write into your manuscript that names a city, an employer, a contact, or a small identifying detail is automatically rendered as a soft frosted blur for anyone who isn't already a mutual match. You write the candid sentence; strangers see a manuscript with the personal bits gracefully out of focus. The shift the design makes is small and large at once. You stop editing yourself out of your own profile. The reader who hasn't earned the personal details doesn't even notice they're missing — the prose still flows. The reader who has earned them reads the original. {/* IMAGE slot: hero subject: A polished dark phone mockup centered on the canvas. The phone shows a manuscript page with the header "🔒 Confidential by design" in gold serif at top. The body paragraph below names age, neighborhood, employer, social handle, and income — but the neighborhood, employer, social handle, and income tokens are rendered as soft frosted-blur rectangles. The remaining text (age, hobbies, intent) reads cleanly in Lora serif. Faint phone frame, dark editorial palette, no faces, no other UI chrome. dimensions: 1200x630 alt: Phone mockup of an Anketta manuscript with the header "Confidential by design" — neighborhood, employer, social handle, and income are rendered as soft frosted blur, the rest of the prose readable filename: anketta-pii-blur-hero-confidential-by-design.webp */} Write the version you'd actually say out loud ## What does an unmatched reader actually see? A manuscript that flows. The headings you wrote. The paragraphs in the order you ordered them. Your first name, your city at the country level if you mentioned it, your age. And softly, here and there, a small frosted blur where a more identifying detail used to be — the neighborhood, the employer, the handle, the precise number. The blur is honest. It tells the reader *something* personal lives there, and that the writer cared enough to write it. It just doesn't hand the detail to a stranger. If the reader keeps reading and decides they want to know who you are, they can choose you — and once you both choose each other, the same paragraph quietly reveals the original. That's the whole feature. Permission, not paranoia. ## What does this let you write that you wouldn't otherwise? The candid line. The one you'd usually leave out because the open internet might read it. - "I live two blocks from a small bakery on **[neighborhood]** and walk past it every Sunday." - "My team at **[employer]** is small and I'm the second engineer." - "If you want to read what I'm writing on the side, my Substack is **[handle]**." - "I make about **[number]** a year — enough to do the things I want, not enough to stop being careful." These are the sentences that turn a profile into a person. Without confidential-by-design, you'd type them, hover, delete. With it, you type them and let them stand — and the only people who eventually see the original are the people you actually matched with. {/* IMAGE slot: inline-1 subject: Two phones side-by-side in soft warm light, dark background. Left phone labeled "before match" — the same Anketta manuscript page from the hero with city, employer, handle, and income blurred. Right phone labeled "after match" — the identical page with the blur lifted and the original details visible (placeholder text — no real PII). Subtle gold separator between the two states. No hands, no faces. dimensions: 1200x800 alt: Two phones side by side — left shows blurred fields before mutual match, right shows the same fields revealed after match filename: anketta-pii-blur-before-after-match.webp */} Write the small details that make a profile a person ## Where does this matter in your day? It matters in the moments dating usually asks you to flatten yourself. - **The first time you publish your manuscript** and feel the urge to take out the line that mentions the bakery on your corner. Don't. The bakery is the line that makes you you. - **When you [share your link with a stranger at a meetup](/features/manuscript-sharing).** The link is public; the personal bits are not. You can hand the QR across the table without doing the mental math of "what could this person do with this information." - **When a friend asks if they can recommend you.** "Yes, send them my Anketta link" is now a genuinely safe sentence — even for people you don't know yet. - **When a match opens.** The reveal is the moment. The same paragraph the reader has been reading for days suddenly carries the small detail it was holding back. It's a quiet way to say *now you know.* For the broader argument about why writing-first dating asks more of the writer and gives more in return, see [our take on text-based dating](/guides/text-based-dating). The [entrepreneurs' angle](/blog/dating-for-entrepreneurs) covers the specific case of public-facing professionals who can't afford to be careless with what shows up in a profile. ## What categories does this cover? The categories you'd expect to be private. Phone numbers in any common format. Email addresses. Postal addresses with a street and a number. Social handles that act as identifiers (Telegram, WhatsApp, Substack handles). Government IDs of any flavour. The categories you wouldn't expect: the small contextual details that *together* would identify you — the neighborhood plus the employer plus the meetup, for instance. The same care you'd take in person when describing your week to a near-stranger. What stays visible is the writing itself. Voice, values, the shape of how you spend a Tuesday — those are the parts that earn the match. {/* IMAGE slot: inline-2 subject: Tight crop on a single sentence rendered in Lora serif on a dark background. Mid-sentence, three short word-shaped frosted-blur rectangles are inline with the readable text — exactly where city, employer, and handle would sit. Soft warm vignette, no UI chrome, no phone frame. dimensions: 1200x600 alt: Close-up of one Anketta manuscript sentence with three identifying details rendered as inline frosted-blur rectangles filename: anketta-pii-blur-sentence-detail.webp */} ## Quick answers about confidential by design ### Do my matches see the blurred parts? No. After mutual match, the same manuscript reads as you wrote it — both sides see the original on their next read. The blur is only for people you haven't matched with. ### Can I turn it off for a specific reader? You don't need to — the blur lifts automatically the moment you and the reader mutually like each other. There's no toggle to remember, and no setting to forget. ### What if I miss something and write a phone number that doesn't get blurred? Anketta automatically catches the standard formats, but if anything ever slips through, the gentlest fix is to edit the line. The manuscript saves as you write, so editing takes a second. ### Does this make my manuscript end-to-end encrypted? No — confidential by design is about who can see what, not about cryptography. It's a permission gate, not a math problem. For most dating use, that's the more useful guarantee anyway. ### Is the blur visible to me too in my own manuscript? You see your own manuscript exactly as you wrote it — the blur applies to other readers, not to the author. ### Can someone screenshot the blurred version and zoom in? The original details aren't in the page they're looking at — there's nothing to zoom into. The blur isn't a CSS effect on top of visible text; the personal bits simply aren't being shown to that reader. The sentence stays. The personal detail waits. You write what you'd say in person — and the people who hear it are the ones you would have told. Unsure about writing? Try reading first.