Open Water

You walk into a bar and lock eyes with a beautiful woman your friend knows. Your friend introduces you, and you quickly learn he and the woman are together. A spark of connection hints at a future you might share.

A couple of weeks later you meet again and she suggests you start a documentary on Black people. The proposal resonates with your experiences and your photography, and you feel a shared purpose forming between you. The idea marks the beginning of a deeper bond built around a project.

You learn about her private school background and the headlines of racism she faced. You open up about your own childhood isolation and how photography became a safe outlet. These conversations deepen trust and bring you closer emotionally.

She becomes a sanctuary you can cry with and be yourself around. You grieve both your grandmother's death and the loss of a friend, and she stays by your side. This emotional support strengthens your bond and makes vulnerability feel possible.

Even though you know a breakup between the woman and your friend has happened, you start spending more time with her and the relationship becomes more physical. You wrestle with the rightness of it while the attraction grows, and the situation tests all your boundaries. The line between friendship and romance begins to blur.

The constant fear of violence and racism shadows your days. You encounter incidents where the police suspect you and treat you as a Black body rather than a person. These experiences erode ease in your relationship and heighten your vigilance.

The climate of injustice weighs on you as friends are harmed or killed, underscoring the threat that racism imposes on daily life. The fear of violence makes it harder to open up about fears and hurts. These events reinforce the sense that belonging feels elusive.

The burden of fear and withheld truth drives a break-up; you stop sharing how you feel and she feels shut out. The relationship falters and your life becomes numb, with the music you once felt disappearing with her presence. You sense a heavy price for not speaking honestly.

A full year passes and you move through the days in the same rhythm, unable to speak your fears. The distance dulls the emotional current that once connected you to her and to your art. The absence of open communication leaves both of you adrift.

You finally muster the courage to tell her about your fears and desires, and she shares her own fears in return. The walls begin to come down and your honesty breathes life back into the relationship. The emotional and musical energy you thought was lost starts returning, and you cry for what you’ve endured and for what you could be together.

With renewed honesty you begin to rebuild trust and closeness between you. You cry for the past, for each other, and for the possibility of a future together. The documentary project continues to be a shared thread that helps heal old wounds.

Together you navigate the complexities of love amid the realities of racism, letting a deeper empathy shape your bond. The music returns, not as it was, but with a wiser, more resilient resonance. You move forward with a sense that you belong somewhere with each other.