"Forever" Is A Prayer, A Memory, A Mirror.

Michael Cooper and Lovie Simone

I am crying. Not just misty-eyed—crying. Ugly, tender, heart-wide-open crying. Episode four of the Netflix series Forever got me like that. Crying like a baby, mourning something I didn’t even know I lost until this show gently, beautifully handed it back.

This story has wrapped itself around my spirit and kissed the parts I thought had long gone numb. It's reminding me—my single, jaded, seen-too-much-of-the-wrong-kind-of-love self—why I used to believe in forever. Not the Disney kind. The Black kind. The kind whispered between shy glances on the train. The kind prayed for. The kind that feels like home when you never had one.

Mara Brock Akil, my God. Sis cracked open my chest and poured in something warm, something sacred. The writing is melodic, damn near gospel. The acting? Honest. No caricatures. No tragedy porn. No corners or crack pipes. Just Black folks being soft. Being complicated. Being human.

It feels like therapy through a screen. And somehow, watching these beautifully imperfect teenagers make messy, big-hearted choices has me—this grown-ass man—reevaluating his entire life. I want to love like that again. I want to raise a child. I want to sit at a kitchen table with a man who smells like cocoa butter and ambition, and talk about the world like it still belongs to us.

Forever is a balm. It's Love Jones for a new generation, soaked in Black softness and told with reverence. It’s everything I’ve been hungry to see. And yes, I caught my friend Rodney Hicks in this piece—serving depth, honesty, and royalty, without the stereotype. A Black gay man written with truth and dignity. That alone is reason to cheer.

If you’ve ever loved, lost, or longed—watch Forever. Let it hold you. Let it teach you. Let it remind you that even the iciest heart still beats.

Let yours thaw.