So, I had intended for this story to be a Reader-Insert fic, but ended up adding background and design details for Y/N that I hadn't originally planned, so now I'm not entirely sure if they still qualify as a Y/N... MI LORDS, PUT DOWN THE STONES, PLEASE MI LORDS!?🙇
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Anyways- onto your regularly scheduled program.
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If you asked Y/N to describe their life in one word, it would be: bland.
A constant cycle of waking up, dragging themself to campus, scribbling down notes they wouldn't understand later, zoning out while lying out on a patch of grass like some knockoff movie about college, panic about the future, ignoring said panic by eating cheap noodles and drinking two monsters a night, scrolling until their eyes hurt, crash at 3 a.m., repeat.
Not failing, exactly—but not moving forward either. Just stuck. Like pressing the same button in a video game and expecting something to change.
That was the routine. Safe. Predictable. And honestly? A little miserable.
Because at the end of the day...
Life isn't like a video game. #Sadface
They woke up to sunlight stabbing through the blinds and the sound of their alarm blaring on loop because they'd snoozed it five times.
"Ughhhhhh. Yeah man, let it out for the whole world to hear, why don'tcha."
Rolling out of bed, they pulled on the usual fit: hoodie, jeans, sneakers. Nothing too fancy but definitely hella comfortable. Hoodie strings dangling low enough to chew on when they got nervous.
They stuffed their backpack with notebooks and crumpled handouts, checked their pockets—phone (which they somehow remembered to plug in last night #winning), wallet, keys, and a couple of gum wrappers from yesterday. Nothing useful.
A glance in the mirror made them wince. Puffy eyes, a chunk of hair that they could never get under control, practically standing straight up like some sort of anteana, and a bit of drool on their face. But whatever. Nobody at uni cared if you looked like a half-feral raccoon.
Earbuds in, playlist on. They locked up and trudged down the street, hood pulled low.
The first lecture was economics, the kind where the professor spoke like they were narrating a funeral. Y/N wrote barely managed three lines of notes before doodling in the margins.
Second was history. Easier to sit through, but they still caught themself zoning out halfway through the lecture, staring at the window and wondering how many years they could waste before anyone noticed.
The third was literature, their favorite, but even that couldn't hold their focus today. They loved stories—fiction, fantasy, anything that felt bigger than their life. But right now their chest was heavy, their brain buzzing with that dull, restless anxiety that always whispered: You're behind. Everyone else is getting ahead. What are you even doing?
By the time the last class ended, they were vibrating with stress and too tired to deal with it.
The corner store near campus was a lifesaver. Like every Friday, Y/N beelined to the slushie machine, ignoring the chips and those nasty prepackaged sandwiches while eyeing their prize.
The "blue raspberry" was struggling. The syrup gurgled out thin, and the ice was more slush than solid, but they filled the cup to the brim anyway.
The first sip made them close their eyes. Cold. Sweet. Pointless, maybe, but it hit just right. Like swallowing neon sugar water.
YOU ARE READING
Cowabummer Dude
Humor"This is where I watched my best friend die, Y/N..." "Cowabummer dude, that sucks." Y/N was just your average burnt-out college student until Truck-kun decided they'd look sexy as roadkill. Now they're stuck in the world of Demon Slayer, armed with...
