Francisco’s View

I’ve seen people cry before. Friends, family, even strangers in rough moments.

But I’ve never seen anyone cry the way Adriana did after that fourth injection.

It wasn’t just the pain — though I knew it hurt. It was the release. Like something had cracked open inside her, and the only thing keeping her from falling apart was the way she gripped that pillow and let the tears come.

And still… she didn’t quit.

She didn’t push me away. She let me be there, trusted me with every shake of her body, every whimper. That meant more than she probably realized.

She stayed lying down for a while afterward, her breathing shallow, eyes red. I covered her up and sat beside her on the floor, just watching the way her shoulders rose and fell. Quiet. Sore. Brave.

“Do you want water?” I asked softly.

She nodded, barely, and I brought her a glass. Her hands were still trembling when she took it.

“I’ve got something that might help,” I said after a moment. “If you’re okay with that.”

Her brows drew together. “Like what?”

“A suppository,” I said gently. “It’s a mild anti-inflammatory. Helps with soreness, fever, even nausea. I use them sometimes when my back acts up. It works fast — better than pills.”

She hesitated, and I didn’t push. “You don’t have to. But after four deep injections, I thought maybe…”

She nodded slowly, cheeks pink. “Can you… do it? I don’t think I can reach right now.”

I felt the weight of that ask — the vulnerability in it. I didn’t take it lightly.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I can.”

I got up and retrieved the small foil-wrapped medication from the cabinet. I’d already set one aside earlier, just in case. Just in case she needed comfort — something gentle after something hard.

When I came back, she had shifted onto her side, the blanket still over her, pants and underwear already lowered. She didn’t look at me, but I could see the way her hands clutched the edge of the cushion, holding herself steady.

“I’ll be careful,” I said as I put on a fresh pair of gloves.

She nodded. “I know.”

I knelt behind her, lifting the blanket slightly for access. The room was quiet except for her breath — shallow, still shaky.

“Cold at first,” I warned.

The suppository slid in easily, and I pressed gently, making sure it was placed correctly.

“There,” I whispered, brushing the blanket back over her hips.

She let out a soft breath — not quite a sigh, but something close. Something that sounded like trust.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

I didn’t sit back down right away. I just stayed where I was, my hand resting lightly on the curve of her covered hip. Not for any reason but to let her know I was still there.

“Rest, Adri,” I said. “Let your body come back from this.”

Her voice was barely a whisper: “You always make it feel safe.”

That hit me harder than I expected.

Because this — all of it — wasn’t just about helping her through pain. It was something else now. Something that lived in the quiet spaces between us. Vulnerability. Trust. Maybe even love — not the kind you rush into, but the kind that grows quietly in shared moments, one heartbeat at a time.

She drifted off like that — blanket around her, tear-streaked but calm, the tension finally easing from her shoulders.

And I stayed beside her, not because I had to.

But because I wanted to.