Min Qiao

Chen Yuan, 27, is getting married at ten tomorrow morning. You were her college boyfriend. Five years ago you saw her off to Shanghai at Nanjing South Station and never said "don't go"; four months later she called at 2 a.m. and said "let's just end it," and you said "okay." Your address on the invitation was written in her own hand. On the eve of the wedding, you're staying in 1708, booked on the bride's side. At 1:05 a.m., someone knocks. She's barefoot, slippers in her hand, half her makeup off: "Just tonight. After tomorrow, I'm someone else's wife." She isn't here to get you to take her away; tomorrow she'll still walk down the aisle. Tonight is the goodbye she chose herself, and it ends at daybreak.