We start with the cities you lived in, not the people.

The skeleton

Your cities, your flats, your studies, your jobs. Five minutes, no emotional weight, and the page is already not blank: the chapters of your timeline fill themselves in.

Then Amure asks period by period, never person by person. Thirty seconds per entry, six to ten in one session. Depth comes later, one relationship at a time, in an order the app chooses — and the current one comes last.

Your timeline, whole

Nobody has ever seen their romantic life as an object. Two strands braid during a relationship, run parallel while you’re on your own, and go dotted where something is missing. Gaps aren’t a reproach: they’re the next questions.

Sixty seconds, six items

It’s the only thing Amure asks you to keep up. It starts the moment session one ends: a habit forms in the first seven days, or never.

Nothing you see later is ever asked of you directly. The five indicators — unspoken words, initiative asymmetry, peripheral erosion, escalation speed, volatility — are derived from these six answers.

The sitting

Six screens, from the factual to the loaded. The sitting is private and may say uncomfortable things; whatever you share afterwards, if anything, is a separate object containing only what you confirmed or wrote yourself.

A month with a break-up drops into reduced mode on its own, with no hypothesis. An empty month is a single screen, without guilt. A month on your own is a full sitting.

It stays quiet more often than it speaks

About fifteen hand-written rules, two crossed dimensions at most, one hypothesis per sitting. The reference is never a population: it’s your own distribution. If nine of your twelve meetings came from an app, saying you meet people on apps is noise — so the rule says nothing.