The short film Hold Me Close, which recently premiered at Sundance, offers an intimate window into the lives of two Queer Black women, Corinne and Tiana, as they navigate their shared existence in a single home. Their relationship—both tender and tumultuous—is portrayed with a raw honesty that challenges typical narratives about love, identity, community, and safety..
At its core, Hold Me Close is a meditation on the delicate balance of connection. Corinne and Tiana’s bond is palpable, yet the film explores what happens when that bond begins to fray. Their shared home, once a haven, transforms into a liminal space—a battleground for intimacy and safety. As they confront their deepest fears, the audience is invited to ask: How does safety look and feel in a love this exposed? How do we hold space for those we love when we are overwhelmed by our own pain?
One of the most striking elements of Hold Me Close is its ability to reflect the complexity of Queer Black love. The film doesn’t shy away from the vulnerabilities and insecurities that arise within the relationship. Lines like, “I’m scared if I’m too happy, something bad will happen,” echo an ancestral fear of joy that comes from navigating systemic oppression while yearning for personal freedom. These words, spoken against a backdrop of growing distance and lingering affection, strike a deep chord.
The film’s visual storytelling also deserves praise. There’s a noticeable shift from light to dark—both in the literal cinematography and in the emotional tone. Early scenes are filled with warmth and shared laughter, but as fear rises, shadows begin to dominate the frame, reflecting the emotional isolation of the characters. This juxtaposition powerfully mirrors their journey: separate but together, tethered yet drifting apart due to self insecurities.
Music plays a pivotal role in Hold Me Close, with the violin acting as a metaphor for Corinne and Tiana’s relationship. The instrument’s fragility and ability to produce both harmony and discord parallel the couple’s dynamic. In moments of despair, the violin’s plaintive notes underscore the weight of their struggles, while its fleeting beauty symbolizes the hope that lingers just beyond the pain.
Acceptance from family also weaves its way into the narrative. For many Black queer women, love exists within a dual context: the deeply personal and the inherently political. It’s not just about who we choose to love but about finding spaces where that love is celebrated, not merely tolerated. Hold Me Close tenderly highlights how familial acceptance—or the lack thereof—can shape the trajectory of a relationship.
Films like Hold Me Close are critical for the Black lesbian community. They offer representation that is both authentic and nuanced, moving beyond stereotypes to capture the depth and breadth of our experiences. In a media landscape that often erases or flattens queer Black women, this short film reminds us that our stories matter. It holds space for those who have felt unseen and unheard, affirming the beauty and resilience of queer Black love.
As I watched the final scene, where one character softly encourages the other to “take a deep breath, be here with me,” I was struck by the universality of the moment. In a world that often feels overwhelming, this film offers a simple yet profound truth: sometimes, love means showing up. It means holding space, even when it’s hard. It means finding light in the darkest corners and choosing to stay—for yourself and for the person you hold close.