The Spark

01 — First run

No account. That is the whole signup.

The Spark opens on one screen and one promise. No email, no password, no paywall, no trial with a date on it. There is one optional screen after it, for a code, because coaches and studies hand them out — and almost nobody has one.

Nothing after that point needs it.

02 — Onboarding

Your words, kept the way you wrote them.

Three questions: who you are, what you want, and what a day actually looks like. There are no dropdowns and no goal categories, because the moment you pick lose weight off a list, the thing you actually said is gone.

The third question is the one most apps skip. A plan built for a life you do not have is a plan you will not keep — so the 5:15 alarm and the drive-thru go in, and they become the constraints your plan has to survive.

03 — The Game Plan

Five come back. You take three.

Each one is built out of something you actually said — the walk is first because the stairs came up in your own words. Then the ceiling: pick a third and the other two grey out.

Three, not thirty. You cannot talk your way into a fourth.

Committing is the only irreversible thing you do in the app, and it is the one moment asking for notifications makes any sense. Asked once, here.

04 — Standby

Evolutions begin on a Monday.

Finish setting up on a Tuesday and nothing starts. The app shows you the plan and waits, because a seven-day cycle that begins on day three is a five-day cycle wearing a costume, and the whole method depends on the unit being whole.

Six days of nothing to do is an odd thing for an app to offer you. It is also the first evidence that this one is not trying to be a habit you have to keep in order to keep your habits.

05 — Monday to Friday

Three checkboxes and a box to write in.

This is the screen you see every weekday. Ticking is day-level, not per-entry — did it happen today, yes or no. Past days stay visible and sealed, because a week you edited afterwards is not a record of anything.

Mid-week a note arrives, written against what you actually logged. Not a streak, not a badge, not a nudge to open the app.

“Day 3 is where the walk gets skipped. Put your shoes somewhere you’ll trip over them.”

06 — Saturday

One open question. No sliders.

Nothing to log on Saturday. Your week is laid out, and the only thing left is to say how it went — in your own words, at whatever length you feel like. That goes up together with what you logged.

What comes back reads the week against what you wrote. It names the Wednesday collision as a scheduling problem, not a discipline problem, banks the habit that stopped needing your attention, and refuses to call two-of-five a failure. The numbers are one tap away and deliberately not the headline.

07 — Sunday

Next week is built out of last week.

This is the hinge the whole method turns on. Your three come back pre-selected, with new options mixed in that exist because of what you wrote yesterday — the Wednesday walk, rescheduled to lunch on Wednesdays only.

Keep, swap, or add. Still never more than three.

08 — Six weeks later

Six weeks of your own writing, read back as one story.

Then it repeats. Plan Sunday, log Monday to Friday, review Saturday, replan Sunday. The last Saturday is the same screen with one word changed, and a Look Back that spans everything instead of one week.

It ends on a Sunday because the length is measured in whole Evolutions — no ragged final week. 33 of 42 days, and a closing line that does not try to keep you.