Love in the Forest of Par
There are many ways to find yourself in love. Some people fall. Some stumble. Some swipe right. And then some clang. Picture this: a man wandering into the forest, wrapped in full armour, visor fogged, boots sinking in moss. He clutches not a sword but a putter. Behind him, a bag of dimpled orbs rattles like dragon eggs. This is no battlefield β this is the forest of mini golf. Every tree wears a windmill crown. Every hollow log holds a secret par three. The ground is uneven, the rules are undefined, and yet he persists. He putts. He misses. He curses into his helmet, the sound bouncing back into his ears louder than intended. That is when he hears it β laughter. Not cruel, but surprised. Bright. Alive. He follows the sound, clanging with every step, tin can heart on noisy display. There she is, standing at the edge of a mushroom-lit course, holding a ball painted like the moon. She is no princess in need of rescue. She is already winning, calm and steady, her strokes precise. He admires her. She admonishes him. βYouβll never find the hole if you keep swinging like youβre slaying demons.β
His cheeks burn, though hidden behind iron. He adjusts. He tries again. He learns.
By the time the sun filters down through pine needles, their game is less about par and more about presence. She lobs gentle mockery; he accepts it. He clangs less, listens more. The armour stays on, but somehow feels lighter. And thatβs how love begins: not with roses or moonlight, but with two lost souls in a forest, one putter between them, and the realisation that you canβt win mini golf alone.
