The brass zipper on Mei’s vintage qipao caught the late afternoon sun, casting a golden shimmer across her collar. She stood before the mirror, examining how the dress hugged her curves - a relic from her grandmother’s youth in 1930s Shanghai.

“You look absolutely stunning,” her mother remarked, adjusting the mandarin collar. “Just like your grandmother in her prime. Though she would never have worn it so… fitted.”

Mei smiled tightly. “Times have changed, Mother. Besides, David appreciates classical beauty.”

“Ah yes, your American boyfriend. The professor of Chinese literature.” Her mother’s tone carried that familiar mix of pride and skepticism. “Such… unique tastes he has.”

The zipper suddenly stuck halfway down Mei’s back. Her mother tutted, trying to force it. “These old zippers, so temperamental. Like love itself - one moment smooth, the next… trapped.”

“Mother, please. Not another lecture about marriage prospects.”

“I’m merely suggesting that some things, like this zipper, require careful handling. Forcing them only leads to damage.”

David was waiting at the restaurant, his blue eyes brightening at the sight of her qipao. “You look like you stepped out of a Zhang Ailing novel,” he said, proud of the literary reference.

“Is that how you see me?” Mei asked. “A character from old Shanghai?”

“What’s wrong with that? It’s romantic.”

“It’s a costume,” she replied. “Like your Mandarin pronunciation - an approximation of something authentic.”

His smile faltered. “I thought you appreciated how I embrace your culture.”

“There’s a difference between embracing and fetishizing, David.”

The evening deteriorated from there. Later, alone in her apartment, Mei struggled with the stubborn zipper. Each tug reminded her of forced conversations, of trying to make something fit that simply wouldn’t.

Her phone buzzed - a message from David: “Perhaps we’re both guilty of forcing things. You want me to be more Chinese than I am, while I romanticize your heritage. Maybe we’re both stuck, like that zipper you keep fighting with.”

Mei laughed despite herself. The sound echoed in her empty room, sharp and brittle like breaking porcelain. She gave the zipper one final, fierce pull. It came free, along with a strip of delicate silk.

“Some things,” she typed back, “aren’t meant to be forced open or closed. They’re meant to be left alone, preserved in their own time and place.”

She hung the ruined qipao in her closet, next to her modern dresses. In the dim light, the broken zipper glinted like a scar - a reminder that sometimes the most authentic thing we can do is admit when we’re playing dress-up in someone else’s stories.

Her mother called the next morning. “The tailor says he can fix the zipper.”

“No,” Mei replied, “some things are better left broken. They tell more honest stories that way.”