Nähe schaffen, auch wenn ihr getrennt wohnt

Elena has two teenage daughters from her first marriage. Marcos lives four metro stops away, in his own apartment. They've been doing this for eight years and have no plans to change it: it works for the girls to have their space, and it works for them too. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays each one sleeps in their own home. One Wednesday at 6:47 AM, Marcos unlocks his phone to turn off the alarm and finds a photo of Elena's toaster with two slices in and a note: "just for me today, but thinking of you". He laughs in his empty kitchen and puts his own toast on too.

Paloma is a teacher in Girona. Víctor is an architect in Barcelona. They met late — she at 47, he at 52 — and both already had a home built to fit them. They decided neither would leave theirs. They see each other Thursday through Sunday, sometimes Wednesday too. On Monday at 9:14 AM, Paloma walks into the staff room, picks up her phone to jot something down and sees on the screen a photo of the Poblenou neighborhood at sunrise with two words: "good Monday". There's nothing more intimate in her entire week.

Rosa is 68, Fermín 71. They've been together for twelve years, since they met as widows. They live in the same neighborhood, two doorways apart. They've never lived together and never will: each one has their rhythm, their own pots and pans, their own way of making the bed. But every morning at 7:03, Fermín unlocks his phone and finds a wallpaper that Rosa scheduled for him the night before from her own living room, two doorways down: sometimes a photo of her geraniums, sometimes a silly line, sometimes an old photo of herself. He sends her his too. They've been doing this for three years, ever since a niece showed them how to use the app.