In Love, Colour Doesn't Matter

Lina stood at the art gallery’s entrance, nervously adjusting the collar of her teal blouse. It was her first solo exhibition, a dream she had painted for years. Her canvases, vibrant and honest, lined the walls—each one a piece of her truth, her journey, her heart.

And somewhere in the corner of that gallery, gazing intently at her painting titled Contrast, stood Arman.

He was tall, with deep brown eyes and skin the shade of rich mahogany. His presence wasn’t loud—but something about him pulled her in. Maybe it was how long he stood before that one painting, studying every brushstroke as if decoding her thoughts.

She finally approached him. “That one’s about love.”

He turned to her, surprised. “Then I understand why it made me stop.”

His voice was warm, smooth like poetry. She smiled, brushing her curly hair behind her ear. “I’m Lina. I painted this collection.”

He looked impressed. “It’s bold, raw. Contrast… is it about race?”

She nodded. “Among other things. About how people see the outer difference first. But love—it’s not about symmetry. It’s about connection.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “You’re brave.”

“I’m honest,” she said. “Or at least I try to be.”

Arman introduced himself, and they talked about everything—art, politics, jazz, identity. Before she knew it, the gallery was closing and the security lights flickered overhead.

“May I take you out for coffee sometime?” he asked as she packed up.

Lina hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to. But because she had heard too many voices growing up warning her about men “not from our background,” telling her what love “should” look like.

Still, she looked up at Arman and saw no judgment. Only interest. Sincerity. She nodded. “I’d like that.”

Their first coffee date turned into a walk. That walk became dinner. Then movies, lazy Sundays, and shared playlists.

Lina was fair-skinned, with hazel eyes and soft features. Arman’s skin was darker, his features sharper. Strangers often looked at them twice. Once with curiosity. Then with silent questions they never asked.

But Lina didn’t care.

Arman was kind, brilliant, the kind of man who remembered the names of street performers and made her laugh on bad days.

One evening, sitting under the city’s old clock tower, she looked at him and whispered, “Do you ever notice how people stare?”

He chuckled. “Always. It doesn’t bother me. I just assume they’re jealous.”

She smiled, but her heart ached a little. “Sometimes I worry. My mother still asks if we’re ‘serious.’”

Arman didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the passing cars. “My uncle warned me once. Said I’d break my own heart if I fell for a girl with lighter skin.”

Lina’s breath caught. “Why?”

“He said she’d never fight for me if the world turned against us.”

She placed her hand on his. “Then I’ll prove him wrong.”

He met her gaze, and in that moment, their hearts wrapped around each other tighter.

Months passed. Seasons changed. But some things didn’t.

When Lina brought Arman to her cousin’s wedding, her relatives smiled politely. But the air was cold.

Later, her aunt whispered, “He’s a good man. But don’t you think it’ll be difficult?”

“Why?” Lina asked sharply.

Her aunt hesitated. “Different families. Traditions. Colour.”

Lina felt rage. And sorrow. But mostly clarity.

“I love him. That’s our tradition.”

That night, Arman looked at her face—tired, distant.

“Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “I just want to be with you.”

He kissed her forehead. “We’ll build our own world.”

In that world, they held hands in public despite disapproving eyes. They laughed at comments, choosing love over bitterness. They ignored labels and rewrote their own.

Lina painted more boldly now. Her next exhibition was called Unmixed—a celebration of blended cultures, mixed identities, and unconditional love.

One of the paintings showed two hands—one darker, one lighter—holding a heart made of gold.

A woman at the exhibit asked, “Is this about interracial love?”

Lina replied, “It’s about real love.”

Arman proposed six months later, under the stars, in the garden where they had shared their first kiss. There was no elaborate plan, no hired photographer—just truth, vulnerability, and joy.

Lina said yes.

Their wedding wasn’t conventional. They blended customs from both sides—colours, music, rituals. Some people didn’t come. Some came but didn’t approve.

But most stayed. Most smiled. Most celebrated.

And when they danced together, skin tones didn’t matter. Only the look in their eyes did.

Years later, sitting on a porch with their twin daughters asleep inside, Arman turned to Lina and asked, “Do you still think colour doesn’t matter?”

She smiled, placing her head on his shoulder. “To others, maybe. To us? Never.”

He wrapped an arm around her. “Best painting you ever made was this life.”

She laughed. “Best masterpiece we ever built.”


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Do you believe love should ever be defined by skin colour, background, or culture? Have you ever experienced love that challenged expectations or broke barriers? Share your story—we’d love to hear how you redefined love in your own way.

Note:
This story was created with the assistance of AI (ChatGPT), then manually edited for originality, accuracy, and alignment with Vocal Media’s guidelines.