What we do not have.

What you write in the jar is held in your own browser's storage, on the phone or the laptop in front of you. It is not sent anywhere. There is no copy of it on a server for us to read, lose, hand over, or be compelled to produce. We do not receive it, we cannot read it, and we could not recover it for you if you asked us to.

That last part is a real trade, so here it is plainly: clear your site data, switch browsers, or pick up a different phone, and the jar is gone. There is no backup, because a backup would mean us keeping your words.

The jar, the rage room, the sea and its islands, the breathing, and the crisis lines all work with nothing asked of you. No wall, no gate three screens in, nothing to dismiss at the worst possible moment.

There is one reason for an account, and everything behind a sign in comes off it: you float a message out to strangers, and a reply needs somewhere to come back to. That somewhere is a shore, and the same door covers reading other people's bottles, answering one of them, and the safety plan the app holds for you. Nothing on this side of it asks for anything.

Before anything floats, the words are read and anything that could point back at you is softened out of them, and you see your own text next to the version the sea would carry. If you do not like what you see, it does not go.

Four things leave with a bottle, and that is the whole list:

A reply comes back as words and nothing else. No name on it, no profile behind it, no way to reach the person who wrote it. It holds in the other direction too: whoever answered you will never learn who you are, or where, or whether you ever came back.

There are no profiles here, no followers, no counters, nothing that adds up to a number about you. And when Breakwater itself writes back, the reply says so. It is never dressed up as a stranger.

Drift shows the sky that is actually above you, with tonight's moon at tonight's phase. Placing the stars needs a rough idea of where you are standing, so there is one optional tap that asks.

Say yes and your location is read once and rounded to a tenth of a degree, about eleven kilometres, which is a city rather than an address. It is written to this device and nowhere else, and it is never sent to us. Say no and the sky uses the country you already chose for the crisis lines, and it still works.

There is a button in Me that means it. Anything of yours still floating is pulled back out of the water. Your bottles, your reasons, your drafts and your safety plan are deleted. The jar on this device is wiped, drafts included. Then you are signed out. No undo, no export, and no copy kept anywhere for you.

Two things it cannot do, and we would rather say them here than bury them in a footnote. If someone already opened one of your bottles, or already wrote back to it, that has happened. Words that reached another person's screen cannot be unread.

And that button does not remove the sign in account itself, which is the email address and the alias attached to it. Ask us and it goes. Contact reaches a person.