In a world where food arrives in minutes, jobs are secured online, and friendships begin with a swipe, it was perhaps only a matter of time before someone tried to accelerate marriage itself.
For a 32-year-old man from China’s Zhejiang province, the experiment ended in disaster.
Known publicly only by his surname, Gu, the only child of a traditional Chinese family, spent years facing a familiar pressure experienced by millions across Asia: the expectation to settle down, get married, and start a family.
When conventional dating failed to deliver results, he turned to a local matchmaking agency.
What followed has become one of China’s most talked-about relationship stories of the year.
According to reports, Gu paid a small registration fee to join the agency. After several unsuccessful introductions, the company presented what appeared to be the perfect match: a 30-year-old woman from Shaanxi province who was reportedly debt-free, healthy, had no criminal history, and was ready for a fast-track marriage.
There was just one catch.
The future bride and groom had never met.
Instead, they were introduced through a video call that lasted approximately five minutes.
The conversation was brief. Gu asked a few questions about her work and family. Most details were reportedly handled by representatives from the matchmaking agency.
Three days later, they were married.
For Gu’s family, the decision came at a considerable cost. Between the bride price and agency fees, the family spent approximately 265,000 yuan, equivalent to nearly US$37,000 or around Rp 696 million.
It was an extraordinary investment in a relationship built on almost no personal connection.
But the real shock came after the wedding.
The agency had promised to provide credit reports and health screening documents before the marriage was finalized. Those documents never arrived.
Suspicious, Gu decided to verify the information himself.
What he discovered raised immediate concerns.
His new wife reportedly had debts totaling around 100,000 yuan. There were also discrepancies involving her digital payment account registration. Shortly afterward, she disclosed a health condition involving elevated liver enzyme levels, although she maintained it would not affect her ability to have children.
For Gu, trust had already begun to collapse.
Just nine days after registering their marriage, he decided he wanted a divorce.
What followed was an even bigger mess.
Initially, his wife reportedly agreed to separate. Later, she changed course and filed for divorce herself, seeking compensation while claiming emotional distress caused by the breakdown of the marriage.
At the same time, Gu launched legal action against the matchmaking agency, demanding a refund of the substantial fees his family had paid.
The agency refused.
Its argument was simple: the service worked. The couple met. They got married. The contract had been fulfilled.
The case has since ignited fierce debate across Chinese social media.
Some users mocked Gu for marrying a virtual stranger after a five-minute conversation. Others questioned the ethics of matchmaking agencies that profit from speed and urgency rather than compatibility.
Yet beneath the online jokes lies a much larger question.
Modern life increasingly rewards speed. We expect instant results in almost every aspect of our lives. Dating apps promise faster matches. Algorithms claim to understand compatibility better than human intuition. Matchmaking services market efficiency as a solution to loneliness.
But relationships continue to resist automation.
Trust cannot be downloaded. Compatibility cannot be guaranteed by a profile. And no agency, algorithm, or video call can replace the slow process of genuinely getting to know another person.
For many expats, digital nomads, and professionals living far from home, Gu’s story may feel surprisingly familiar. In a world built around convenience, there is often pressure to move quickly—whether in relationships, business, or major life decisions.
His nine-day marriage is an extreme example, but its lesson is universal.
Some decisions can be accelerated.
Marriage, it turns out, may not be one of them.
