Open Water

The Self, Cate Bauer, begins their story by walking into a bar and noticing a stunning woman who happens to be known to a friend. A quick spark jumps between them, and the Self asks the friend to make the introduction, only to learn that the friend and the woman are already together. The woman is a dancer, and the Self is a photographer, and a casual meeting turns into a possibility for something more. A few weeks later, she suggests they collaborate on a documentary focusing on Black life, and they agree to work together, meeting more often as they plan the project.

Those early encounters deepen their bond as they spend time exploring each other’s histories. They learn about the other’s private school background and what it felt like to be among the few Black kids, and how a hobby or passion can become a sanctuary—a space to escape the daily sting of racism. Through these conversations, the Self and the woman discover a shared sense of being seen, not just as a Black body, but as a whole person with hopes, dreams, and wounds. The growing closeness becomes a refuge: the woman becomes a sorely needed safe space where the Self can talk, cry, and simply be without judgment. They share grief for a grandmother’s death, and they bear witness to the loss of friends, always able to lean on each other in moments of vulnerability.

As time passes, the relationship faces new tests. The two break off from friends and, despite knowing it’s complicated and fraught, they slip into closer, more physical companionship. Yet something persistent holds them back from fully committing: a constant fear rooted in the lived experience of being Black. The narrative pushes into episodes of injustice and encounters with the police, where the Self is too often seen as a stereotype or a threat rather than a human being. These moments of suspicion and danger cast a long shadow, shaping everyday life and making it hard to open up about wounds, traumas, and desires. The fear of violence and judgment becomes a barrier to intimacy, and the strain takes a toll on the relationship.

The strain culminates in a breakup. The Self stops sharing feelings, and the woman perceives a wall between them, leaving the Self numb with a life that feels hollow—like a body moving through the motions while the music of life fades away. A year passes before the Self finds the courage to voice fears and hopes; the woman responds with honesty about her own fears, and that exchange helps the music and emotions begin to return. In that moment of vulnerability, the Self tears up for both of them—and for what they could be together—recognizing that healing can happen when fear is faced and truth is spoken.

Across these pages, the story remains grounded in lived experience: the constant balancing act between love and danger, connection and restraint, belonging and marginalization. It is a careful meditation on how connection can be both a lifeline and a risk, how trust must be earned again and again, and how two people can help each other find a voice when the world too often deafens them. The journey closes with a quiet, powerful affirmation that the shared emotions and memories—good and bad—linger, urging the Self and the woman toward a future where vulnerability, empathy, and resilience may finally outpace fear.

Last Updated: October 09, 2025 at 14:15