We needed something to express our joy, our beauty, our power.

Host: The rain had just ended over the city, and the streets glowed like wet glass beneath the rising sun. Puddles mirrored the early light, and in one of them — reflected between skyscrapers and clouds — a faint rainbow stretched, fragile but defiant.

Down an old cobblestone alley, tucked between a bookstore and a tiny café, stood a mural painted in vivid color: a great sweeping flag, red to violet, dancing across the wall like a captured piece of sky. Beneath it, two people sat at a small iron table, steam rising from their coffee cups.

Jack leaned back, grey eyes narrowed, the smoke from his cigarette curling upward like a question. Jeeny sat opposite him, tracing her finger along the edge of her cup, her long black hair damp from the rain. The faint smell of earth and paint lingered in the air.

Across from them, the mural’s caption glowed faintly in morning light:

“We needed something to express our joy, our beauty, our power. And the rainbow did that.” — Gilbert Baker.

Jeeny: “Every time I read that, it feels like a promise. Like someone finally found the right shape for hope.”

Jack: “Hope in six colors? Seems too neat, doesn’t it?”

Host: The breeze shifted, stirring the damp leaves. Somewhere nearby, a faint melody drifted from a street performer’s guitar — slow, almost mournful.

Jeeny: “It’s not about neatness. It’s about visibility. Before the flag, they had nothing that said ‘we exist’. Baker gave the invisible a way to shine.”

Jack: “Or he gave them a brand. A symbol for the world to box them into. Symbols can unite, sure — but they can also reduce.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s realistic. The world loves symbols because they make complexity easier to digest. You raise a flag, people cheer — but they stop listening. The color distracts from the struggle.”

Host: The sunlight broke through the clouds more fully now, casting shifting reflections over the mural’s surface — reds deepening into gold, blues sharpening into something almost electric.

Jeeny: “You always see the cage, never the wings. The rainbow wasn’t made to hide the fight — it was made to celebrate what the fight was for: joy, beauty, power. Baker made something the world couldn’t ignore.”

Jack: “Or he made something the world could sell. Parades, posters, corporations painting rainbows on logos for one month a year. You think he wanted that?”

Jeeny: “He wanted expression. What people do with it later doesn’t erase the origin. You can’t control how the world uses light, Jack — only how it’s lit.”

Host: A group of young people walked past them — laughing, holding hands, their clothes still damp from the rain but their eyes bright. One wore a small rainbow pin on their jacket. They paused at the mural, took a photo, and moved on.

Jack watched them, silent.

Jeeny: “See that? That’s what he meant. Not the politics — the feeling. Joy. Beauty. Power.”

Jack: “You think joy is power?”

Jeeny: “It’s the rarest kind. People underestimate how radical joy can be. To exist happily when the world tells you not to — that’s rebellion.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his fingers tapping the edge of the ashtray. His expression softened slightly — not in surrender, but in thought.

Jack: “You talk like happiness is a weapon.”

Jeeny: “It is. Ask anyone who’s had to fight to be seen.”

Jack: “And yet joy fades, Jeeny. It’s fleeting. The world doesn’t bend because someone smiles beneath a rainbow.”

Jeeny: “No — but it begins to soften. And sometimes, that’s enough to let the next person breathe.”

Host: A truck rolled by, its wheels splashing through puddles. The sound was loud, metallic, then gone, leaving the air heavy and still. Jack looked back at the mural.

Jack: “You really think colors can do that? Change the way people breathe?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Colors are language. Red for life, orange for healing, yellow for sunlight, green for nature, blue for harmony, violet for spirit. Baker didn’t pick them at random — he wove meaning into fabric. Each stripe a story of existence.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just fabric and dye. Meaning is what we decide it is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And we decided it meant freedom. That’s the miracle — the moment something ordinary becomes sacred because people believe in it together.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes shone in the rising light, catching reflections of the colors behind her. Jack’s grey gaze softened, tracing the hues across the wall — his cigarette smoke mixing with the faint mist of the morning.

Jack: “I remember the first Pride march I covered as a journalist. I went expecting noise. Chaos. But there was this moment… a woman maybe in her seventies, standing on the sidewalk. She had a rainbow flag wrapped around her shoulders. She wasn’t chanting or dancing. Just standing there — still. And when the parade passed, she smiled. Just smiled. Like she’d finally been allowed to exist.”

Jeeny: “And did you write about that?”

Jack: “No. My editor said it didn’t fit the tone of the piece.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we need symbols, Jack. Because sometimes silence edits the truth out of existence. Baker didn’t just make a flag — he made a declaration that couldn’t be edited.”

Host: The light brightened, turning the mural almost blinding. For a moment, both had to squint, the colors becoming pure radiance.

Jack: “So the rainbow’s not just art — it’s defiance painted in daylight.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The beauty is the protest.”

Jack: “You really believe beauty changes anything?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Think of the Stonewall riots, the decades of shame, silence, invisibility. Then — one act of creation. A flag of color where there used to be only fear. Beauty gave courage a face.”

Host: A small rainbow arc shimmered faintly across the café window as the last drop of rain refracted the sun’s angle. Jack noticed it first, his eyes following it.

Jack: “Strange, isn’t it? Nature made the same thing Baker did — light breaking itself to be seen.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he chose it. Because it wasn’t his alone — it was everyone’s. The rainbow doesn’t belong to anyone, and that’s its power.”

Jack: “Or its tragedy. If it belongs to everyone, it belongs to no one.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s its freedom.”

Host: The morning wind stirred again, fluttering a small paper napkin across the wet cobblestones — catching it in a puddle where the rainbow reflected. Jeeny watched it spin slowly, then smiled.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Baker understood something the rest of us forget: that joy isn’t decoration — it’s declaration. You can’t legislate color out of the world.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But you can still forget to look.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s on us.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the light now painting both their faces — his angular, shadowed; hers soft, luminous. The conversation had slowed, like a melody reaching its final note.

Jack: “You win this one, Jeeny. Maybe the rainbow isn’t just a flag. Maybe it’s proof that we can turn pain into something worth looking at.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s proof that we are something worth looking at.”

Host: The sun rose higher, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed washed clean — every reflection a reminder that light needs darkness to reveal its color.

As they stood to leave, the mural glowed behind them — not paint, not cloth, but living color, humming with memory and defiance.

Host: And as the day unfolded, Gilbert Baker’s words lived quietly between them —
that joy is not escape, but evidence,
that beauty is not vanity, but survival,
and that the rainbow is not just seen in the sky,
but carried, always, in the courage of those who dare to live in color.