Nabila

The next time I watched it was with my brother, with whom I share many of my quirks. I wanted to see if he would like it, if our flame still burned from the same wood—and he did. We talked about addiction, about the grey space between good and bad, about the impossibility of pure black and white. That conversation shaped how my mind works, how I see the world.

Recently, I watched it again, as someone freshly heartbroken, trying to love something from the past once more. And again, I was changed. So much has happened since I was twenty-one—so many wrongs done to me, so many I’ve done myself. This time, instead of hating the characters most despised, I tried to see them as if I were in their shoes, to understand them, and to learn how everyone processes grief differently—and how grief and ghosts consistently stay with us through life, even when we think we’re healed.

I learned forgiveness—oh, did I learn about forgiveness on another level this time. I was in a place of resentment I thought would never fade, yet I discovered that forgiveness is warm, like a tear on a cheek. I realised that I did completely love the people who left, and they loved me the same. The rest is confetti. My heart expanded so much, and somehow God willed me to forgive—or at least to open my heart enough to begin. Maybe I glimpsed this in my first and second watch, but isn’t it beautiful how our favourite pieces remind us of so much, teach us so much, and make us feel so much? Isn’t it a miracle that God allows us to learn through art?

The show is nearly perfect, but never flawless. The characters are flawed and messy, just like humans—and somehow still lovable, also just like us. The words, the script—they linger. They remind me why art exists, why it is made beautifully, and why it touches us so deeply. If art doesn’t bring you closer to God, what a shame it is to miss that gift.