Adriana’s View

It was just after midnight when I messaged him.

Francisco, are you awake?

A second passed. Then three dots.

Yeah. What’s up?

My thumbs hovered over the screen, heart pounding even though I was just lying in bed. I’d typed the message twice already and deleted it. But this time, I hit send before I could second-guess myself.

Can I ask you something kind of weird?

You’ve asked me weirder. Go ahead.

I sat up, clutching my pillow like it could ground me. Then I typed it out, fast, before I could lose my nerve.

I’m scared of needles. Like, really scared. And I want to get over it. Would you… help me? Like… actually give me an injection?

I stared at the message, my chest tight, a lump forming in my throat. It sounded ridiculous out loud. What kind of person asks a friend for something like that?

But Francisco wasn’t just a friend. He was the kind of person who made you feel seen. Who never made fun of your fears. He was the only person I trusted enough to even consider this.

His reply came quickly.

Are you serious?

Yeah. I know it’s weird. But I think I need to try. And I trust you.

For a while, there was nothing. I thought maybe he’d ghost, maybe laugh it off.

Then:

Okay. I’ll help you. But only if we do it safe. Proper supplies, clean space. I’m not messing around with this.

Deal.

Adriana… are you sure? You don’t have to prove anything to me.

I know. I’m doing it for me. I just don’t want to do it alone.

⸻

We met the next day at his apartment. He had laid everything out on the kitchen table — alcohol wipes, gloves, syringes, the kind of simple saline solution that could mimic the feeling without actual medication. He even had a heating pad ready in case it hurt afterward.

“You really prepared,” I said, trying to joke through the nerves.

“I said I’d help you,” he said with a soft smile. “And I meant it.”

I sat down on the edge of his couch, my palms already sweaty. “Okay… just the upper thigh, right?”

He nodded. “You can lie back if you want. Or stay seated. Whatever makes you feel most in control.”

I looked at him — steady, kind, calm. Then I nodded and lay back.

He knelt beside me, swabbed my skin, and looked into my eyes.

“Last chance to bail,” he said gently.

I bit my lip. “Do it.”

The needle went in, and everything in me tensed. I winced, let out a sharp breath, and gripped the cushion beside me.

“Hurts,” I whispered.

“I know. You’re okay.”

It didn’t last long — maybe ten seconds. But it felt like forever. When he pulled the needle out and pressed a cotton pad to the spot, I let the tears come.

Not from the pain — not really. From what it meant.

“You did it,” he said. “You were scared, and you still did it.”

I sat up slowly, wiping my cheeks. “That… was horrible.”

He laughed gently. “Yeah. But you’re still here.”

And I realized… I felt lighter. Shaky, sore — but also proud.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “I don’t know why, but… this really matters to me.”

He nodded, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Then we’ll take it one step at a time.”