I just finished Forever for the second time — and it still feels rare. Special. Revolutionary, even.
Not because it shocked me with a dramatic twist or dragged me through trauma after trauma. But because it didn’t. It let Black love be the story. And it held that line beautifully.
Forever, the new Netflix series created by Mara Brock Akil and based on Judy Blume’s 1975 novel, is a coming-of-age drama that follows Keisha (Lovie Simone) and Justin (Michael Cooper Jr.), two Black teens exploring their first love, family bonds, identity, and young adulthood in 2018 Los Angeles. It’s intimate, thoughtful, vulnerable — and, more than anything, it’s gentle.
And that gentleness feels almost foreign.
Because we’re so conditioned to expect trauma in stories about us. At one point while watching, I found myself tense, waiting for the pain to drop. You probably know the exact episode I’m talking about. The one where everything felt like it might fall apart. I had already made up my mind — if this plays out the way I think it will, I’m not watching another minute. But then… it didn’t. The show didn’t betray that trust. It chose tenderness over tragedy. Again.
That’s not to say Forever ignores hardship. The show thoughtfully addresses the aftermath of a sex tape leak involving Keisha — a storyline that could’ve easily veered into exploitative territory. But instead, we’re introduced to the incident after it happens. We never see the footage, and we never need to. The series doesn’t sensationalize the violation — it focuses on the fallout, the healing, and how Keisha continues to navigate the world and her relationships in its wake. That choice alone speaks volumes about the kind of care this show was built with.
It’s a testament to the creators — Mara Brock Akil, executive producers Regina King, Reina King, and directors like Anthony Hemingway and Regina herself. This is what happens when Black storytellers are in control, both in front of and behind the camera. There’s a palpable sense of trust and intentionality in every frame, every beat.
But as the credits rolled on that final episode, one thought lingered: Why don’t we have more of this?
We’re inundated with narratives that ask Black audiences to endure. To prove our humanity through pain. To perform trauma so the world might understand us better. And yes, those stories can be powerful. But they shouldn’t be the default.
Forever is different. It gives us softness. Humor. Complicated, everyday emotions. Healthy family dynamics. Young love that’s tender and electric, not doomed or dramatic. It celebrates the kind of joy and intimacy we rarely get to see portrayed with such care.
And it’s not just that the story is trauma-light — it’s that it trusts us enough to sit in joy without bracing for impact. That shouldn’t feel revolutionary, but it does.
So here’s the ask: more. We need more stories like this. Not just from Mara Brock Akil (though yes, always), but from a pipeline of Black creators given the space to tell stories rooted in wholeness. More platforms that prioritize love stories that don’t come with a prerequisite of pain.
Forever is a quiet triumph. A reminder that our stories are rich, layered, and worthy — even when they’re not centered on survival. Especially when they’re not.
We deserve stories that let us breathe.
Watch Forever now streaming on Netflix. Then ask yourself — what would it look like if softness wasn’t the exception, but the standard?