First impressions last.

—

Autumn breath whispers
a wordless introduction
before the first word

—

There are moments that don’t look like moments.
You know the kind. The ones that happen when no one’s watching, and even if they were, they wouldn’t think anything of it.

Like the first time you meet someone, and instead of saying the right thing, you just nod, or half-smile, or ask them something small like if the tea is any good.

That was how this one started.

A bench. A path.
Somewhere just outside Matsumoto.
The wind was doing that thing it does in late October—pushing and pulling the trees in slow waves, like it was tuning a memory.

There were no introductions. Just a shared pause.
Then the question came, light and casual, as if it had been floating there in the air all along.

“What kind of first impression do you think you give?”

I thought about lying.
Saying something like, I try to be confident or I want people to see I’ve got it together.

But the truth was simpler.

“I want people to feel safe.”

—

When I was younger, I wanted to be interesting.
Maybe even mysterious.

The kind of person who said something clever within the first five minutes of meeting someone. Who dressed just right. Made eye contact, but not too much. Smiled in a way that felt effortless. Casual. Cool.

But somewhere along the way, that changed.

Maybe it was all the people I met on trains. Or the elderly man in a secondhand bookstore in Basel who once told me, “Don’t waste time trying to be memorable. Be kind. It lasts longer.”

Or maybe it was the silence of the mountains in Tohoku, where even the trees seemed to say—just be here.

Whatever it was, I stopped trying to impress.
And I started trying to be present.

—

I learned something strange about first impressions.

They don’t come from saying the perfect thing.
They come from attention.

People remember if you listened.
They remember if you paused before replying.
They remember if you looked at them—not to study or judge—but as if you were quietly saying, It’s okay. I see you.

You could wear the perfect jacket, have the sharpest words, even rehearse a flawless self-introduction. But if you’re not there with them, not really, they’ll forget you.

Attention is the new charisma.

—

There was a lesson someone once taught me.

They said the best way to build trust isn’t through persuasion.
It’s through making someone feel seen without needing anything from them.

That’s the kind of first impression I want to give.

Not: Look at me.
But: You can be you around me.

Not: Here’s why I matter.
But: Here’s space for you to breathe.

And ironically, once you stop trying to shape how you’re seen—
you start being remembered for something real.

—

The Quiet Power of a Gentle Beginning

There’s a small knife shop in Kyoto.
The man who runs it doesn’t say anything when you enter.
He just bows.
Then he stands behind the counter in silence.

At first, I thought he was shy. But he wasn’t.
He was just waiting to see who you were—without interrupting.

That moment stuck with me.
Because that bow said more than any pitch ever could.

It said: I’m here. You’re here. That’s enough for now.

—

A First Impression Isn’t a Performance

It’s a kind of handshake with the world.
It doesn’t have to be loud.
It doesn’t have to sparkle.

It just has to be honest.

And honesty, real honesty—the kind that doesn’t require explanation—
is rare enough to be magnetic.

—

What People Actually Remember About You

Here’s the part no one tells you:

People don’t remember your outfit.
They don’t remember your job title.
They don’t remember your joke.

They remember if you asked them something real.
They remember if you made them feel like they belonged.
They remember if the silence between your words was kind.

That’s it.

The most unforgettable people are often the ones who didn’t try to be unforgettable.

They just showed up with their whole presence intact.

—

Wabi-Sabi Lesson:

A beautiful first impression doesn’t shimmer—it settles.

It doesn’t chase. It invites.

It’s not made with your résumé.
It’s made with your rhythm.
The way you walk into a room without needing to own it.
The way you let your attention fall gently onto someone else’s words.
The way you’re okay not being the main character.

Presence, not performance.

That’s what people remember.
That’s what stays.

—

Later that day, we parted ways on the edge of town.
The wind had died down.
The trees had stopped their slow waving.

I didn’t get their name.
They didn’t ask for mine.

But the impression stayed.

Like the smell of a tangerine after it’s gone.
Like warmth in a cup long after it’s been drained.

And isn’t that the whole point?

To leave behind something gentle.
Something real.
Something worth returning to, even if only in thought.

—
When in doubt, just bow.
Let your silence be soft.
Let your first hello say: I’m here. That’s enough.