Crossing

Liam Moore never planned to raise his daughter alone, least of all in a country that doesn’t quite feel like home. After the sudden death of his wife, the African American transplant finds himself stranded in the suburbs of Liverpool, sharing a roof with in-laws who grieve as loudly as they bicker. Liam’s days blur together: rideshare shifts, baby bottles, and an endless stream of small talk he can’t escape. But when a talkative stranger — who just so happens to be his late wife’s childhood friend — hops into his car one rainy night, Liam’s carefully controlled solitude begins to crack. Suddenly, he’s drawn into a world of new neighbors, old ghosts, and the impossible task of making friends as an adult. In this offbeat dark comedy, grief is never tidy, and belonging isn’t guaranteed. Crossing is about what it means to start again in a place that doesn’t feel like yours — and discovering that “home” might be something you build from scratch.

The world of Crossing is where everyday life crashes into chaos — a comedy-drama Britain that’s instantly recognizable but seen through a sharper, funnier lens. It’s the bus stop where gossip travels faster than the buses, the community center that doubles as a battleground, the pub where secrets slip out between pints. The humor isn’t forced; it bubbles up naturally from the contradictions of small-town living — people juggling jobs, relationships, family drama, and mistakes that spiral out of control. Visually, it’s grounded and cinematic, but with an energy that keeps things playful: bright splashes of color against grey streets, awkward silences that flip into absurd comedy, tension punctured by moments of warmth. This is a world where tragedy and humor sit side by side — because that’s how life really feels.

Crossing is pulled directly from my own life. Like Liam, I’m an African American who found himself in the ‘burbs of Liverpool, trying to reconcile grief, family obligations, and the absurd challenge of making adult friends in a place that didn’t feel like mine. Writing this series was my way of answering a question I couldn’t shake: how do you rebuild a life in the wake of loss, when the world expects you to just keep going? I wanted to explore the messy, surreal comedy of starting over. By leaning into Merseyside — its quirks, its accents, its unapologetic grit — I found a world that felt both deeply specific and universally relatable. This isn’t a story of triumph over tragedy; it’s about stumbling forward, laughing at the absurdity, and learning that “home” can be where grief and joy sit uncomfortably at the same table.