Pink is my favourite colour. I used to say my favourite colour

Host: The evening was soaked in the warm blush of a fading sunset. The sky, still trembling from the light, spilled its hues across the glass of an uptown café, painting everything in shades of soft rose and deep coral. The city outside buzzed with its usual hum — the rhythm of ambition, the murmur of style — but inside, the world seemed slowed, gentler, caught in a pastel haze.

At a small corner table, Jack sat in a dark wool coat, the kind that looked too serious for the hour. His grey eyes were steady, searching, hidden behind the faint reflection of the café window. Across from him, Jeeny — wrapped in a loose pink scarf that shimmered like spun silk — stirred her tea with slow, meditative circles.

Her nails were painted the palest rose. Her lips matched.

Jeeny: “You know what Roxane Gay said once? ‘Pink is my favourite colour. I used to say my favourite colour was black to be cool, but it’s pink — all shades of pink. If I have an accessory, it’s probably pink.’”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s... disarmingly honest.”

Host: The music playing faintly in the background — a quiet jazz tune — seemed to blush too, lingering between them like the aftertaste of sincerity.

Jeeny: “It is honest. And beautiful. Don’t you love that? The way she admits she pretended to like black just to be cool?”

Jack: “I think it’s funny how people do that. Build little lies to make themselves more acceptable. Black is mysterious, sophisticated — safe. Pink is… vulnerable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why I love her for saying it. Pink isn’t weak. It’s just honest about what it feels.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing a color.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe I’m defending every person who ever learned to hide their softness just to survive.”

Host: The steam from Jeeny’s tea rose in delicate tendrils, curling toward the light above like a spirit stretching. Jack watched it, his fingers drumming lightly on the table — slow, thoughtful.

Jack: “You really think a color can mean all that?”

Jeeny: “Colors are language, Jack. Pink says, ‘I’m not afraid to be kind in a world that worships cool.’”

Jack: “Or it says, ‘Please don’t underestimate me.’”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it says both.”

Host: The light shifted, slipping from sunset to the first breath of dusk. The café’s golden lamps flickered on, glowing like fireflies trapped in glass. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes alive, her voice soft but unwavering.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how everyone’s trying so hard to be unbothered these days? As if caring is some kind of flaw?”

Jack: “Because caring gets you hurt. Black hides the blood. Pink shows it.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? To show it — to admit you bleed? That’s courage, not weakness.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like someone who’s tired of pretending not to care.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe I am.”

Host: A moment of stillness. Outside, the streetlights blinked on one by one, their glow dripping down the pavement like melted amber. The faint hum of traffic was distant, muffled by glass and introspection.

Jack: “When I was younger, I used to wear black all the time. It made me feel… invincible, I guess. Like no one could see through me.”

Jeeny: “And could they?”

Jack: “No. But I couldn’t see myself either.”

Host: The confession slipped out like smoke — quiet, unintentional, real. Jeeny didn’t respond at first. She just looked at him — that deep, still kind of look that wasn’t pity or sympathy, just human recognition.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what she meant — Roxane Gay. Maybe pink is the opposite of disguise. It’s a declaration.”

Jack: “A declaration of what?”

Jeeny: “Of self. Of softness. Of saying, ‘This is me — no matter who’s looking.’”

Host: Jack leaned back, his coat catching the edge of the seat. The color contrast — black fabric against her pink scarf — was almost cinematic. He looked down at her tea, then at her, then at the window where the reflection of both of them lingered side by side: him a shadow, her a bloom.

Jack: “So what — you think admitting you love pink is some kind of rebellion now?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t shout or break things. The kind that says, ‘I will not apologize for what makes me feel warm.’”

Jack: “You think warmth changes anything?”

Jeeny: “Everything. Especially now. The world doesn’t need more armor — it needs more color.”

Host: Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, his eyes unfocused. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The rain began outside — slow at first, tapping the window like someone hesitant to interrupt.

Jack: “You ever think about how much energy it takes to be who people expect you to be?”

Jeeny: “All the time.”

Jack: “And you still choose pink.”

Jeeny: “Especially because I still choose pink.”

Host: Her words struck him — not loud, but with the weight of truth. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small pen — pink, sleek, and absurdly cheerful. She placed it in front of him.

Jeeny: “Here. Borrow this. Write something honest.”

Jack: “I don’t do pink pens.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why you should.”

Host: Jack picked it up, twirling it between his fingers. The color looked almost comical against his rough hands — and yet, somehow, it fit. He tapped it against the table once, twice, then opened the notebook beside his coffee cup.

Jack: “You ever wonder why admitting what you like feels like a confession?”

Jeeny: “Because somewhere along the line, we were told authenticity was embarrassing.”

Jack: “And pretending was power.”

Jeeny: “But pretending’s just loneliness with better lighting.”

Host: He stopped writing, looking at her again — this time not as a challenge, but as though something in her words had brushed the dust off a buried truth.

Jack: “You think color can redeem a person?”

Jeeny: “No. But honesty can. And pink just happens to be its color tonight.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, streaking down the glass, blurring the world outside into shapes and motion. Inside, the café felt warmer, smaller — as though time itself had curled up between them.

Jack: “You know, I think I get it now. Black was who I wanted to be seen as. Pink is who I actually am.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “And who are you?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Someone who stopped apologizing for liking what shines.”

Host: He smiled back — not wide, but soft, the kind of smile that starts deep and works its way up slowly, like forgiveness. He clicked the pink pen once more and wrote something in his notebook. Jeeny leaned forward slightly, curious.

Jeeny: “What did you write?”

Jack: “A reminder.”

Jeeny: “Of what?”

Jack: “That cool isn’t courage.”

Host: Jeeny’s smile deepened — quiet triumph, quiet affection. The rain outside slowed, tapering to a whisper. The reflection in the window showed two figures still sitting there, surrounded by pink light — the world outside now grey, the inside glowing.

And for a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The silence itself had softened.

Jack lifted the pink pen one last time, drawing a small, imperfect circle in the corner of his notebook.

Jeeny noticed.

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “A blush. For the page.”

Host: She laughed — the kind of laugh that fills the air like spring sunlight after rain. Outside, the sky broke open again, the last of the sunset’s pink lingering like a secret too beautiful to fade.

For once, Jack didn’t look away.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t want to.

Because somewhere between her scarf and his pen, between her warmth and his walls — black met pink.

And the world, for a single perfect heartbeat,
glowed in color again.