My Goose Matchmaker Is A Walking Disaster, But He Led Me Straight To Her

“Alright, Pip, what’s the plan?” Elara murmured, a smile playing on her lips. The little goose at her feet let out a soft, confident honk and took a sharp right, veering off the paved path and onto the damp grass. Elara followed without hesitation, her sensible flats sinking slightly into the earth. She trusted Pip implicitly. Everyone was assigned their goose at birth, a feathered, sentient compass needle pointing the way to their other half. Some people ignored them, fought them, even resented them. But Elara had always believed. She was a librarian; she believed in stories, in things fitting together in a way that made perfect, elegant sense. The goose system was just the world’s most charming story.

Pip was small, even for a soulmate goose, with pristine white feathers and bright, intelligent eyes. He led her now with a determined waddle, his little orange feet pattering against the ground. They were supposed to be heading for the bus stop on the far side of the park—she had a shift at the library in an hour—but Pip seemed to have other ideas. He led her in a wide, looping circle around a fountain where children were splashing, then insisted on a thorough inspection of a particularly robust patch of clover.

“Finding a four-leaf for good luck?” she asked him, adjusting the strap of her tote bag on her shoulder. He honked again, a short, dismissive sound, as if to say, We don't need luck, we have a system.

He then made a beeline for a cluster of rose bushes, forcing her to duck under a low-hanging branch, its thorns snagging a thread on her cardigan. Just as she untangled herself, she heard the distinct hydraulic hiss of the #14 bus—her bus—pulling away from the stop across the green. A tiny sigh of frustration escaped her lips before she could stop it. She was never late.

But then she looked down at Pip. He stood perfectly still, looking up at her with an unwavering gaze that was all business. The frustration melted away, replaced by a familiar fizz of anticipation. This was how it worked. The system wasn't about convenience; it was about convergence. Every missed bus, every nonsensical detour, was a deliberate move on a celestial chessboard, positioning her for something important.

“Okay, I get it,” she whispered, stroking his smooth head with one finger. “You know best.”

Pip seemed satisfied with her renewed faith. He nudged her ankle with his beak, guiding her toward a simple wooden bench beneath a sprawling oak tree. It was empty, and it offered a perfect, unobstructed view of the park's main promenade. As she sat down, smoothing her skirt, she noticed he had positioned her directly across from a bustling mobile coffee cart, the scent of espresso and steamed milk hanging in the air. She settled back, a curious smile on her face, and waited to see what the universe—and her goose—had in store.

Across the park, Julian stormed along the promenade, his jaw tight with frustration. He was late. Not just late, but potentially-lose-the-biggest-commission-of-his-career late. And it was all because of the feathered menace currently attempting to herd him toward a hot dog vendor.

“Move, Honkers,” he hissed, trying to sidestep the goose.

Honkers was not like other soulmate geese. He was enormous, a beast of a bird that stood nearly thigh-high, with a belligerent stare and a honk that sounded less like an animal and more like a failing car horn. Right now, that honk was being deployed with aggravating frequency. Julian’s knuckles were white where he gripped the handle of his leather portfolio. Inside were the blueprints for the new city museum—the culmination of a year of sleepless nights and painstaking work. He could not be late.

But Honkers was a living, breathing, profoundly annoying obstacle. The goose weaved in front of him, a serpentine pattern of pure defiance. Julian gritted his teeth, his long legs trying to out-maneuver the bird’s infuriating waddle. He sidestepped left; Honkers mirrored him. He feinted right; Honkers blocked him again, letting out a triumphant HONK that turned the heads of passersby. Julian’s face burned with a mixture of rage and humiliation.

He saw the coffee cart up ahead, a small oasis of civilization he had to get past. He aimed for the narrow gap between the cart and a park bench, picking up his pace, determined to break free. It was a fatal miscalculation.

Just as he drew level with the cart, Honkers stopped dead. Not a swerve, not a waddle, but a full, solid stop directly in his path. Julian’s forward momentum was too great. The toe of his polished Oxford caught on the goose's unyielding body, and the world tilted on its axis.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. He felt the lurch in his stomach, the sickening, weightless moment of lost equilibrium. His arms pinwheeled uselessly through the air. The portfolio, his masterpiece, slipped from his sweating grasp. It flew open as it fell, a geyser of white paper—renderings, floor plans, structural calculations—erupting into the sky before scattering across the pavement.

His body followed, a clumsy, uncontrolled projectile aimed squarely at the coffee cart. The impact was a cacophony of screeching metal, shattering ceramic, and a wet, percussive splash. He crashed into the side of the cart, his shoulder sending it tipping. A large silver urn of coffee slid from its perch, cascading in a steaming waterfall over the cart’s awning and onto the ground—and onto the person standing there. He landed in a heap on the pavement, the leg of his expensive suit instantly soaked with hot, bitter coffee. Milk and sugar packets littered the ground around him like confetti at a disaster. A sharp gasp, followed by a furious hiss of breath, cut through his daze. He pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing as his gaze fell upon a pair of very expensive, coffee-splattered heels. His eyes traveled up past a ruined business suit to the face of a woman whose expression was one of pure, unadulterated fury.

For a horrifying second, all Julian could do was stare at the dark brown stain blooming across the woman’s cream-colored blazer. Her face was a mask of thunderous rage. Behind him, Honkers let out a low, guttural honk that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

“I am so sorry,” Julian began, scrambling to his feet. His own suit was ruined, his knee throbbed where it had hit the pavement, but his most pressing concern was the portfolio. His life’s work was scattered across the walkway, some pages already bearing the dirty footprints of hurried pedestrians. “My—my goose—he just stopped—”

The woman was not interested in his excuses. “Your goose?” she snapped, her voice dangerously sharp. “You think that’s an apology? Look at me! I have a deposition in twenty minutes.”

From her bench, Elara watched the scene unfold with a sense of detached fascination. It was like watching a play. The flustered, handsome man with dark, unruly hair falling into his eyes. The furious businesswoman. The villainous-looking goose standing over the wreckage like a conquering general. And the papers, oh, the papers. They were beautiful technical drawings, she could see, detailed and precise. They swirled in the gentle breeze, a chaotic ballet of lost work and bad luck. She felt a pang of sympathy for him, but it was buried under a wave of pure amusement. This was the system at its most theatrical. This was a Pip-level intervention.

Julian’s face was a study in desperation. He was trying to placate the woman while simultaneously lunging for his blueprints before they blew away entirely. He scooped up a handful, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, a stark contrast to his pale skin. In his frantic attempt to salvage the situation, he looked up, his gaze sweeping the park as if searching for some escape, some witness to his utter humiliation.

And then his eyes found hers.

They were dark, intense, and filled with such profound exasperation that it was almost comical. For a split second, the noise of the park—the woman’s tirade, Honkers’ intermittent squawks, the distant city traffic—faded away. There was only the silent, electric connection between her amused expression and his mortified one. A shared acknowledgment passed between them, a flicker of understanding about the sheer absurdity of being governed by feathered tyrants. He saw that she wasn't laughing at him, not really. She was laughing with the universe, and he was the punchline. A corner of her mouth lifted in a small, sympathetic smile.

The moment was shattered by another deafening HONK.

Honkers pecked sharply at Julian’s ankle, a clear command to move. The woman finally seemed to run out of steam, huffing in disgust before turning on her heel and stalking away. Julian was left in the middle of the path, kneeling amidst the debris of his morning. He gathered the last of his dirt-smudged papers, stuffing them haphazardly back into the portfolio.

As he stood, he glanced back toward the bench. But Elara was already getting to her feet. Pip was nudging her insistently, his job here apparently done. He gave a final, soft honk and began waddling away, leading her toward the opposite end of the park. She took one last look back at the man, who was now being frog-marched away by his own giant goose, a defeated slump in his broad shoulders. They didn't speak a single word, but as she walked away, the image of his frustrated, handsome face was perfectly, unforgettably clear in her mind.