What people make, and who they make it for.

Imagine: they open a link with their morning coffee and walk back through every year of you, ending on the thing you've never quite said out loud.

Imagine: they scroll through four years of you, and at the very bottom, behind a button that says 'open when you're ready', is the question.

Imagine: it's their lunchtime and your midnight, and they open a page counting down the 87 days until you're at the airport, embarrassingly early.

Imagine: February 14th, 7am, and instead of a card on the table there's a link — and behind it, every reason it's them.

Imagine: they wake up to a link, and it's a whole page of you taking the mick out of them for four scrolls before going devastatingly sincere at the bottom.

Imagine: the night before the ceremony, they open a page from their family that starts at age eight, bandaging the dog, and ends with their new title.

Imagine: a grandmother on the other side of the world opens a page at breakfast and meets her grandson — the time of birth, the yawn, the middle name that's hers.

Imagine: the night before they start, they open a page from their family that remembers the attempt that failed — and exactly how loudly the house shouted when the result came.

Imagine: she opens a link expecting a nice card moment, and it's everything — itemised, with receipts, signed by the kid who never says this stuff.

Imagine: he reads it twice in silence, says 'very good', and you find out from Mum that he's opened it eleven times since.

Imagine: it's the long, flat hour of an afternoon on the ward, and they open a page that makes them laugh out loud — then cry a little, in the good way.

Imagine: an ordinary afternoon, a text that just says 'open this', and twelve years of friendship laid out plainly — for no reason except that it's true.