The letter arrived in red envelope, wax seal, calligraphy so formal it hurt to read.
MANDATORY MARRIAGE ASSIGNMENT
Ministry of Social Harmony hereby notifies you that under the National Matchmaking Mandate, you have been assigned a marriage partner by State-Approved Matchmaker Liu Wei-chen. Marriage must be completed within 180 days. Compliance is mandatory.
Your assigned partner: Lin Mei-ling
First meeting: Thursday, 2PM, Matchmaker Liu's office, Beijing
I stared at it over breakfast while my grandmother watched with the expression of someone who knew exactly what was happening and was deeply pleased about it.
"Nai-nai, when did you submit my profile to the matchmaker?"
"Six months ago. When you turned twenty-nine and were still unmarried like some kind of confirmed bachelor hermit." She sipped her tea smugly. "Now you're properly assigned. Matchmaker Liu is very reputable. Your match will be suitable."
My name is Zhang Wei. I'm a software engineer in Beijing. I live alone with three plants and a very simple life. I'd successfully avoided my grandmother's matchmaking schemes for years by being boring and busy.
Apparently, that was no longer enough.
"The mandate is terrible policy," I said. "Forcing people to marry based on traditional matchmaking? In 2025? We don't live in caves anymore."
"Both governments agree it's good for declining birth rates and social stability." My grandmother stood to clear dishes. "Besides, your match is probably a nice Beijing girl. Teacher or nurse. Someone practical."
I looked at the name again. Lin Mei-ling. It sounded... not Beijing. But I couldn't place it.
"What if we're incompatible?" I asked.
"Then you'll learn to be compatible. That's how marriage works." She patted my shoulder. "Don't be late Thursday. Matchmaker Liu doesn't tolerate tardiness."
----------
Matchmaker Liu Wei-chen's office was in a traditional courtyard building, somehow preserved in the middle of a very modernized Beijing. The waiting room had chairs on both sides, separated by a rather pointed aisle down the middle.
I was early. Nervous. Still trying to process that I was legally required to marry someone chosen by a stranger.
The door opened and a woman walked in. Sharp eyes behind large frame glasses. Hair in a practical ponytail. She looked around the waiting room with an expression that clearly said she'd rather be anywhere else.
"Lin Mei-ling?" the receptionist called.
The woman's head snapped up. "Yes?"
"Please wait. Your assigned partner hasn't arrived yet."
"I'm right here," I said, standing.
She looked at me. Really looked at me. Then her expression did something complicated.
"Oh no," she said.
"Excuse me?"
"You're from Beijing."
"Yes?"
"I'm from Taipei."
We stared at each other. The receptionist stared at her computer screen. The silence was deafening.
"That's... the matchmaker made a mistake," I said finally. "That has to be a mistake."
"You'd think," the receptionist said mildly. "But Matchmaker Liu doesn't make mistakes. Please, both of you, go in. She's waiting."
We walked into the office like we were walking to our executions. Matchmaker Liu sat behind her desk, ancient and unimpressed, surveying us like particularly slow students.
"Sit."
We sat. On opposite sides of the desk. As far apart as physically possible.
"I assume you've introduced yourselves," Matchmaker Liu said.
"He's from the PRC," Mei-ling said.
"She's from the ROC," I said.
"Yes. I'm aware. I made the match." Matchmaker Liu folded her hands. "You're both intelligent. Stubborn. Principled. You'll argue constantly, which is good for keeping a marriage interesting."
"We're from opposite sides of a civil war," I said.
"Technically a civil war that never ended," Mei-ling added. "Just paused. For seventy years."
"Yes, yes. Everyone knows the history." Matchmaker Liu waved dismissively. "The point is, you're matched. The paperwork is filed with both governments. You have six months to marry."
"Both governments approved this?" Mei-ling demanded. "Beijing and Taipei both signed off on matching their citizens across the strait?"
"The mandate requires matching by compatibility, not geography. I match by traditional methods: birth dates, family compatibility, astrological signs, bone structure. You two are textbook compatible." Matchmaker Liu slid papers across the desk. "These are your requirements. Weekly meetings for four months. Two meetings per week for month five. Month six is wedding preparation. All documented."
"I want to appeal," I said.
"Appeal denied. The mandate has no appeal process."
"That's authoritarian!" Mei-ling protested.
"Yes. Welcome to mandatory arranged marriage. Both your governments implemented it. Both are equally authoritarian about it." She stood. "Your first meeting is tomorrow. 6PM. Neutral restaurant. I've sent the location. Don't be late."
"Wait," Mei-ling said. "How did this even happen? Don't most matches stay within their own country?"
"Ninety-seven percent do. You two are the unlucky three percent." Matchmaker Liu walked to the door. "Now out. I have twelve more matches to brief today."
We left. Stood in the courtyard. Looked at each other with mutual horror.
"This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me," Mei-ling said.
"Same."
"I'm a journalist. I write about civil liberties. And now I'm being forced to marry someone from the government I've spent my career criticizing."
"I write supply chain logistics code and wanted a quiet life. Now I'm marrying someone who probably thinks I'm a propaganda victim."
"Are you?"
"Are you a separatist?"
We glared at each other.
"This is going to be a disaster," she said.
"Complete disaster," I agreed.
"Six months."
"Six months."
We parted ways, both equally miserable, both trapped in the same bureaucratic nightmare from opposite sides of a decades-long political divide.
----------
The mandatory restaurant was aggressively neutral. Generic Asian fusion that could offend no one because it committed to nothing. The kind of place that existed purely for business meetings and, apparently, forced political marriages.
Mei-ling was already there, laptop open, typing furiously.
"Working?" I asked, sitting down.
"Angry email to my government representative. Not that it'll matter. The mandate is law in Taiwan too." She closed the laptop with force. "Let's get this over with. We need a photo for the documentation app."
I pulled out my phone. We leaned in, both wearing expressions of profound resignation. I took the photo, uploaded it. Both governments confirmed receipt instantly.
"Efficient surveillance," Mei-ling muttered.
"Both sides," I said. "Equally efficient. Equally invasive."
She looked surprised. "You're criticizing your beloved government?"
"Our beloved government is forcing me to marry a stranger. You're damn right, I'm criticizing it." I opened the menu. "And for the record, yours is doing the exact same thing."
"I know. I've been reporting on it for months. The birth rate panic. The traditionalist backlash. Both governments decided arranged marriage was the solution." She ordered tea. "And somehow, out of millions of people, we got matched."
"Matchmaker Liu said three percent of matches cross the strait."
"Lucky us."
We ordered food in tense silence. We ordered food that would be comforting. Food we grew up eating. She got lu rou fan (minced pork and rice). I got mapo tofu.
"Can I ask you something?" I said finally.
"Will it start a political argument?"
"Probably."
"Then sure. We're stuck together anyway."
"Do you actually want Taiwan to be independent? Like, personally, not just professionally."
She considered this. "Yes. But not because I hate the mainland. Because I think we're different now. Seventy years of different governance, different experiences. We've become separate." She stirred her tea. "Do you want reunification?"
"I don't know. I've been taught it's inevitable. But I also..." I hesitated. "I also don't know if forcing it helps anyone. Maybe some things should just be allowed to stay the same. I mean, why fix something that's not broken?"
"That's the most reasonable thing I've heard from someone from Beijing."
"Not all of us are propaganda robots."
"I didn't say you were."
"You implied it."
"Maybe a little." She almost smiled. "Can I ask you something?"
"Fair's fair."
"Are you angry at me? Specifically? For being Taiwanese?"
"No. I'm angry at the situation. At both governments. At Matchmaker Liu for somehow thinking this would work." I met her eyes. "But not at you. You're as trapped as I am."
She relaxed slightly. "Same. I'm furious about the mandate. But you're not the enemy. You're just another victim of bureaucratic overreach."
"That's something, I guess."
"Terrible, terrible something."
We ate. The food was mediocre. The conversation was stilted. But somewhere in there, we established a baseline: mutual suffering, mutual frustration, and at least mutual acknowledgment that neither of us asked for this.
"Weekly meetings for four months," Mei-ling said, checking her requirements document. "What should we do?"
"Museums? Movies? Things that require minimum interaction?"
"Good plan. Professional distance. Just fulfill the requirements and get through this."
"Exactly."
We both knew it wouldn't work. But we were both stubborn enough to try.
----------
Week three, we met at an art gallery. Safe. Neutral. Just looking at paintings and maintaining our professional distance.
"This piece is about resistance against oppression," Mei-ling said, studying a modern installation.
"I think it's about loneliness in urban spaces," I countered.
"Same thing."
"Completely different."
She turned to me. "Do you just reflexively disagree with everything I say?"
"Do you automatically assign political meaning to everything?"
"Yes! Because everything IS political!"
"Not this painting! This painting is about a guy who was sad about his breakup!"
We were getting looks from other gallery-goers. Mei-ling lowered her voice. "Fine. Maybe it's about a breakup. But breakups are also political when you consider gender dynamics and—"
"Oh my god."
"What?"
"You can't help yourself."
"It's called being informed!"
"It's called being exhausting!"
She glared at me. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. "Okay. Fine. Maybe I'm a little intense about analysis."
"A little?"
"Don't push it." She moved to the next piece. "Your turn. What's this one about?"
I studied it. "Colors."
"That's it? Just colors?"
"Sometimes things are just what they are. Not everything needs deeper meaning."
"That's such a programmer answer."
"You're a journalist. Everything's a story to you."
"Same thing."
"Completely different."
This time we both smiled. A real moment of connection through our constant arguing.
"Can I confess something?" Mei-ling said as we moved through the gallery.
"Sure."
"These meetings are less terrible than I expected."
"Same. You're less insufferable in person than I imagined."
"Wow. Romance."
"We're not supposed to be romantic. Professional distance, remember?"
"Right. Professional." She paused at a painting. "Although, if we're stuck doing this for six months anyway..."
"We might as well try to make it bearable?"
"Exactly. Just bearable. Not enjoyable."
"Definitely not enjoyable."
"That would be giving in to the mandate."
"Can't have that."
We took the mandatory photo. This time, we were standing closer. Almost naturally.
Progress, I thought. Terrible, unwanted progress.
----------
Month two, something shifted.
The meetings stopped feeling like obligations and started feeling like plans. I looked forward to seeing her. Prepared topics we could argue about.
She started recommending books, articles, documentaries that explained her perspective.
I read them. She read the ones I sent back.
We were learning each other's worldviews, even as we maintained our opposition.
"Your government is still authoritarian," she said over dinner. Week nine.
"So is yours. Just different flavor."
"Agreed. Both terrible. Mine just has better street food."
"That's debatable."
"It's really not. Taipei night markets are superior."
"Beijing has—"
"Roast duck. I know. You've mentioned it every time food comes up."
I laughed. "Am I that predictable?"
"Completely. But in a..." She paused. "In a kind of nice way."
We both realized what she'd said. The word "nice" hung in the air like a confession.
"We should maintain professional distance," she said quickly.
"Absolutely. This is still a mandatory arrangement."
"Forced by governments we both resent."
"Right."
Neither of us believed it anymore.
By month three, we'd stopped pretending. We held hands because we wanted to, not because the documentation required it. We lingered after meetings, finding excuses to keep talking. She'd started teaching me Taiwanese phrases. I'd started watching films from Taiwan.
"This is a terrible idea," she said one night, walking through a Beijing park.
"The worst."
"We're from opposite sides of a civil war."
"That never ended."
"Our families will have impossibly complicated politics."
"My grandmother already loves you. She doesn't care about the politics."
"My mother is... processing. She's very pro-independence."
"Will she hate me?"
"Probably not. You're too awkwardly earnest to hate."
"Thanks?"
"It's a compliment." She squeezed my hand. "Wei, can I tell you something?"
"Always."
"I'm glad it was you."
"What?"
"The match. I was furious when I found out. But now?" She stopped walking, turned to face me. "I'm glad Matchmaker Liu matched us. I know that's what the governments want us to feel, and I hate giving them that satisfaction, but it's true."
I pulled her closer. "Want to know a secret?"
"Yes."
"I requested to stay in the system."
She blinked. "What?"
"The mandate has an opt-out process. You have to request it six months before you turn thirty. I knew about it. I didn't file."
"Why not?"
"Because my grandmother used to tell me stories about my grandfather who fled to Taiwan and who she probably will never get to hold again. Because the strait is so small but politics made it an ocean. Because I thought..." I hesitated. "I thought maybe the mandate could build bridges the politicians never would."
"That's incredibly naive."
"I know."
"And kind of beautiful."
"I know that too."
She kissed me. Right there in the park, in Beijing, two people from opposite sides of a political divide that never healed.
"We're choosing this," she said when we broke apart. "Not because we have to. Because we want to."
"Revolutionary act?"
"The most revolutionary. Choosing love despite governmental overreach. Or maybe because of spite?"
"Both. Definitely both."
We walked back through the city, planning a wedding that would somehow honor both families, both cultures, both complicated identities.
"My mother wants traditional Taiwanese ceremonies," Mei-ling warned.
"My grandmother wants three hundred Beijing relatives."
"This is going to be chaos."
"Complete chaos."
"I can't wait."
Neither could I.
----------
The wedding was a diplomatic incident wrapped in red and gold.
Both families showed up with competing expectations, cultural requirements, and barely concealed political tensions. Mei-ling's uncle wouldn't stop talking about Taiwan's sovereignty. My aunt kept referring to reunification. We seated them at opposite ends.
But they came. Everyone came. Because despite the politics, despite the mandate, despite everything, two people had found each other across the divide.
Matchmaker Liu attended, looking deeply satisfied.
"Told you," she said. "Textbook compatibility."
"You matched us across a civil war," I said.
"And?"
"And we're from opposite sides of literally everything."
"Yes. That's why you work." She smiled. "Same stubbornness. Same passion. Same belief that your way is right. You'll argue forever. You'll never be bored."
Mei-ling appeared in her red dress, and my brain stopped working. She looked stunning. Sharp and beautiful and completely herself.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Terrified."
"Same."
"But we're doing this anyway?"
"We're doing this anyway."
We got married in front of two families who couldn't agree on anything except that somehow, impossibly, this worked. We exchanged vows in Mandarin and Taiwanese. We honored both traditions. We made it ours.
During the reception, Mei-ling's mother approached me. I braced for political interrogation.
"You make her happy," she said simply. "That's enough."
"Even though I'm from Beijing?"
"Even though." She smiled. "My mother was from Fujian. Families have always crossed this strait, whatever the politicians say."
My grandmother hugged Mei-ling like she'd known her for years. "You argue with him. Good. He needs arguing with."
"I noticed."
"And you love him anyway?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Then you're perfect."
We danced, two people who met because governments mandated it, stayed because we chose it. The three percent. The statistical anomaly. The match that shouldn't have worked.
"Hey," Mei-ling said as we swayed to music.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for not opting out."
"Thank you for not killing me when you found out where I was from."
"I considered it."
"I know."
"But then you'd mention your houseplants and I'd remember you're kind of sweet under the programmer pedantry."
"I'm not pedantic, I'm precise."
"Same thing."
"Completely different."
She laughed and kissed me, and somewhere Matchmaker Liu was probably marking us as another success statistic.
The mandate was still terrible policy. Both governments were still authoritarian. The civil war was still unresolved.
But here, in this moment, with my wife from the other side of everything, I understood what the matchmaker had known all along.
Some bridges get built despite the politics.
Some connections happen because people are stubborn enough to try.
And sometimes, just sometimes, being forced together gives you the chance to choose something better.
Even if you argue about it constantly.
Especially then.
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END
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