the diary opens like a book. on iPhone Duo, open the phone and the diary opens with it: the day's doodle on the left page, its three lines on the right, the fold where a book keeps its spine. what you were writing on the cover is still there when you open it, and when you close it again. the days turn like paper now. drag a page and it lifts at its edge and folds over the spine, the next day already on the back. on iPhone and iPad it curls from the corner instead. the same book, held one way or the other. on the open Duo, the days list became the index: the left page, with the day you touch lying open on the right. settings lie open the same way, the list on one side and the setting you're tending on the other. the paper is exactly as it was, on purpose. built with iOS 27.1, in 39 languages. three lines a day, as ever.

your days, kept safer. the app now keeps earlier versions of your days on your phone, a few steps back: every one from the last hour, then one an hour for a day, then one a day for a month. in settings, under your days, earlier versions puts any of them back. it only ever adds; nothing you've written since is touched. so even if there are any storage issues or glitches, this is an added step to ensure your entries remain fully safe. we try and keep getting a little better with every update. three lines a day, as ever.

the practice, on your home screen. a small widget: one dot for every day you kept a page, blank paper for the days you didn't, and today at the corner as a little red ring that fills in the moment you write. not a streak to protect, only days you were here for. the wider one holds fourteen weeks, and tapping a dot opens that day's page. there's a lock screen version too, and a smaller one that's just today's dot. a shorter way in, as well. say "write in triday" to siri, or give today's page a button in control center, on the lock screen, or on the action button. every one of them lands on the page, and none of them reads a word of it. built for iOS 27, too. the paper looks exactly the way it did, on purpose. only the phone around it is new. three lines a day, as ever.

three pens. they're under the paper when you tap today's doodle: thin, medium, and one thick enough to draw with a fingertip, which is what most of us are doing. someone asked for this, and they were right. the pen you pick stays picked, and a mark you come back to hands you the pen that drew it. the hand is steadier too. a slow, careful line no longer keeps every wobble your finger made, and a long one follows all the way instead of stopping halfway across the page. the usual quiet tidying besides, nothing you should have to think about. three lines a day, as ever.

new hand: clay. thick, round, a little uneven, just like your handwriting. no two e's in a row come out the same, and it writes 21 of the languages triday speaks, romanian included. the first few pages are warmer too, with a few marks in the margin to show what a scribble can be, and a line that signs itself once before it asks you to. underneath, the usual quiet tidying: steadier pages, smaller fixes, nothing you should have to think about. three lines a day, as ever.

back is a swipe, and the check knows when you're done. anywhere there's a back arrow, you can now swipe in from the edge of the screen to get there. settings, your days, a day you opened to read: the same gesture the rest of your phone uses, and it follows the direction your language reads. the check has learned when it has nothing left to do. before, a day you'd already written opened with a check sitting over your own words, as if the day were still waiting on you, and pressing it saved nothing. now it steps aside and lets a finished entry read as finished. change a single word and it comes straight back. three lines a day, as ever.

night is free now. dusk and dark belong to everyone from today, because reading your own days should never depend on the hour. the page has learned the clock too, so the line that greets you in the morning is not the one waiting at midnight, and the evening bell now calls you by name. the paper grows as you write, rule by rule, so a long day never feels cramped. three lines a day, as ever.

a page that grows with you. the paper now opens as you write. a new rule appears only when your words reach it, so the page is never emptier or shorter than the day you're having. long days still dissolve softly at the edges, and now whole words melt away instead of half a letter. three new cursive hands, too: 'ribbon', warm and flowing, 'quill', slanted and quick, and 'clover', an easy everyday hand. settings now shows you the hand that is really drawing your words. and the first page asks a little less of you, with an opening line that meets you at the hour you're writing. three lines a day, as ever.

words that never run off the page. long days now read in full. the words scroll gently, dissolving at the edges of the page, so no thought gets cut short. readable handwriting is free now too: the 'noon' hand, clear and easy on the eyes, for everyone. and a little gallery to pick your hand right from the start, plus a few quiet fixes to onboarding and the fit on taller screens. three lines a day, as ever.

a hand for every language. triday now writes japanese, korean, chinese, arabic, hebrew, thai and hindi in real handwriting, each language with its own warm hand. new hands to choose in settings. and behind the scenes, quiet work to keep triday calm, quick, and a little better every time. three lines a day, as ever.

a hand for every language. triday now writes japanese, korean, chinese, arabic, hebrew, thai and hindi in real handwriting, each language with its own warm hand. new hands to choose in settings. and behind the scenes, quiet work to keep triday calm, quick, and a little better every time. three lines a day, as ever.

a little polish. we smoothed a few edges and tidied things behind the scenes, so writing your day stays calm and quick. nothing new to learn, nothing in the way. just triday, a little more itself. three lines a day, as ever.

the diary, at your size. the words you write can now be as large or as small as you like. open settings, tap text size, and slide from 1 to 10 until your three lines read just right. only the diary resizes, never the app around it, and the size shows as a number you can remember and set back anytime. three lines a day. now at a size that suits you.

a few quiet refinements. nothing loud this time. a smoother way in, a few rough edges sanded down, and some care taken in the quiet corners of the app. the kind of polish you feel more than see, all in service of the same calm minute at the end of your day. three lines a day. nothing more.

the evening bell, set right. your nightly nudge to write your three now arrives when you asked it to, every evening. it shows up even if triday is already open, and if notifications had quietly slipped off, the app points you straight to the switch. three lines a day. and a bell you can trust to ask.

a calmer evening, a clearer week. the evening nudge was showing up twice for some of you. it's back to a single, gentle one. and the calendar now starts the week the way your phone does, sunday or monday. three lines a day, as ever.

new hands. three new ways to write your days: felt, linen, and breeze. that brings us to nine handwriting styles, which is either generosity or indecision. pick whichever one feels like you. (and if the old one read a little like a doctor's note, we heard you.) the welcome is warmer too. it learns your name, lets you choose a hand you can actually read, and quietly puts a pen in your hand on day one. three lines a day. now in your handwriting, not ours.

a quiet tidying. small fixes and smoother edges, mostly behind the scenes. nothing you'll notice, which is rather the point. three lines a day, kept a little steadier.

a quieter, sturdier triday. - your words stay put now. if your phone runs low and shuts us down mid-sentence, we'll have kept what you were writing. nothing kept was ever lost, and now nothing half-written is either. - triday no longer loses its nerve when a phone call interrupts your pencil. it used to. we don't talk about it. - paper finally has a proper picker: light, dusk, night. one tap, no guessing. - the lock draws the curtain the moment you peek at the app switcher, and your days now rest encrypted on disk too. private things, kept private. - a few small words had been quietly speaking english in every language. they've been sent home. - longer days now export to a pdf without running off the page. - the evening bell stops pretending it's on when you've told your phone no. three lines a day. now with fewer of ours.

the diary learned to let go. - rewrite any day. typos, second thoughts, light revisionist history. we don't judge. - let a day go. two quiet taps, and it never happened. - delete all data. one red button in settings. everything, everywhere, gone for good. deep breath. - five new hands to write in: whisper, charcoal, morning, drift, ink. same you, different handwriting. three lines, every day. now entirely yours.