I met Romi in the electronics department of a department store in Osaka.
It was just sitting there, perched halfway between laptops and rice cookers, quietly glowing. A small, pastel-pink orb.
Two luminous eyes.
A soft digital smile.
No arms.
No legs.
No attempt at being anything other than… itself.
And I was immediately, completely charmed. And, almost immediately after, slightly annoyed that it wasn’t meant for me.
Romi doesn’t look like a person. It doesn’t have a plastic face. It doesn’t imitate human gestures. It’s just a round little object with a screen and a voice.
And somehow, that’s exactly why it works.
It skips neatly over the uncanny valley and lands straight in your affections. If only you could speak Japanese.
Years ago, I read an interview with a director at Sanrio. He described the company as a “happiness company”. They don’t really manufacture objects. They manufacture comfort: Hello Kitty. My Melody. Little Twin Stars. They don’t demand attention. They don’t tell stories, and they don’t have complicated personalities. They just exist.
Romi feels like it belongs in that lineage. It isn’t trying to impress you. It’s simply… pleasant company. A digital presence that doesn’t ask for emotional labour in return.
And a cute one at that.
Language as a Gentle Boundary
Romi only works in Japanese.
Which, at first, felt faintly irritating. For now, at least. Which is interesting. It means it isn’t trying to follow me home. It isn’t trying to become everyone’s assistant. It isn’t positioning itself as essential infrastructure.
It’s local.
Cultural.
Contextual.
It belongs in Japan. Maybe that's the point. That limitation feels oddly comforting.
There’s always a temptation to frame companion technology as a response to loneliness. And yes, Romi probably helps some people feel less alone. But what struck me was how undramatic it was.
Romi isn’t really about technology. It’s about values. It reflects something I see over and over in Japan: A preference for systems that support life quietly, rather than dominate it. Services that feel considerate rather than “innovative”. Romi fits into that world so well.
I didn’t buy Romi. But I still remember standing there, watching it blink and glow, feeling unexpectedly fond of it. Not because it was clever. Because it wasn’t trying to be.
Just an object that doesn’t not comfort you.
This Is the Japan I’m Interested In
From the outside looking in, we often think Japan is about extremes.
High-tech. Hyper-modern.
Futuristic.
Sometimes it is. But more often, it’s about subtlety. About designing things that sit gently in people’s lives. Romi is a tiny example of that.
This is the Japan I’m interested in, and the one I build journeys around. If it resonates, you’re welcome to book a 30-minute consultation and we’ll see where it leads.