Various One Shots

Randy Cunningham x Depressed! Reader

A/N: I've been really into this fandom lately, and while I love Professor Layton, I want to branch off a bit, I would also love to get some more requests! You can comment or message me privately, but requests are always amazing and one shots help me improve as a writer. Finally, don't mind if this is a bit vent-y, I've been feeling a bit worse than usual so... yeah.

Trigger Warning: Depression, mentions of suicidal thoughts

I take a breath of fresh air as I crumple up another piece of paper, tossing it at the same bucket. The one overflowing with paper. The ball lands on top and slides down.

Another mistake. Another case of not being able to find the right words. Another failed suicide note.

The roof of our school is barren, nothing but gravel, trash, and that old bucket. It's all flat and open and off-limits to students. I'm no different, as a student at this school, but because no one ever bothers going through the trouble getting up here-- propping the door open with a book and picking the lock-- the staff stopped checking.

A breeze chills my body, sending a quiver down my spine. I consider putting my sweater back on, but it's so much more comfortable to sit on than the gravel.

Everyday I stay here after school, alone, writing, thinking, and feeling the wind in my hair. I cry here on my worst days.

But mostly I think about jumping.

I look over the edge. Feeling the dizzying distance, not seeing it, but feeling it. Feeling the almost crushing weight of it on my body, like my heart was being squeezed and someone set loose a cage of butterflies in my stomach. But it didn't feel like fear, or even hesitance. Just the nervousness and nausea that comes with staring down at the ground from a high place.

It sounds sad and lonely, I bet. And I guess it is. Everyday the same, mundane and same-y and-

Someone opens the door.

The door to the roof is a tad smaller than most doors, but still big enough for an average adult to fit through. It's made out of thick, sturdy wood, painted a dark brown with a thick coat of lacquer. However, it's worn and faded after years of being exposed to the elements. The safety glass on the door is dirty.

I should clean up around here sometime.

But the door opened.

No one ever comes up here.

"Who's there?" I call, I don't let my fury take over my voice as I stand. This is my spot. My spot.

Always me, alone.

Sounds sad, lonely, and maybe it is.

"Who...? I should be asking you that." A male voice says, a boy, probably one that goes to this school.

Nothing but gravel, trash, and that old bucket.

I cry here on my worst days.

How dare he. How dare he.

"I come up here every day." I explain.

Then I see him. Dark, spiky, almost purple looking hair, is the first thing I see, then his face, deep ocean blue eyes. He's wearing a black sweater, a red shirt, and black jeans.

His name comes to mind.

"Randy." I state.

We were passing friends, not like we've never had a conversation, but we didn't know each other well enough for this.

"Y/N."

"Hi." I say dully.

"What are you doing here?" He asks.

"I'm..." I stop myself, "I come here everyday." I finish, "What are you doing here?"

"I... heard a rumor about the roof being open when it wasn't supposed to be, so I came here."

"Well, you proved that it's true. Now it's time to tell everyone that it's stupid and not to come here." I encourage, sitting back down on my sweater.

"Why?" He inquires, stepping closer.

"Because." I say, tucking my knees in closer to my chest, "This... it's my place. And I know that sounds-- no, is-- bitchy and selfish, but it's... it really is what I think."

He takes a seat next to me, mimicking my pose and slinging an arm over his knees, it takes everything I have to not glare harshly at him.

And then we sit in silence for about thirty seconds.

He stares at something, and I stare at him. Looking at his deep blue eyes, watching them shine, like looking up at the sun while submerged in the bottom of the ocean. Noticing the few rebellious strands in his already messy hair.

He was kind of handsome, in a cute way.

"What's that?" He asks.

He points to the filled bucket.

"That... uh, that's..." I find myself at a loss as to what to say, I mean, it's not like I can just admit that it's full of failed suicide notes, "A bucket." I try to sound witty.

It's not a lie.

He rolls his eyes. I guess he was just trying to make conversation, "Ah." 

Then we talk.

We talk for hours.

Conversation comes easily with him, somehow.

The thoughts that usually overwhelm me, are calmed, suppressed.

When it's dark and we can see the glittering stars, the shining moon, we realize just how late it is.

"Shit." Randy says, looking up at the sky, "I've got to get going." He stands, waves at me, "See you."

I wave back.

He walks towards the doors. I hear his sneakers crunch on the gravel. His fingertips brush the brass door handle.

It has always been me.

"Wait!" I call. He turns.

Here, alone.

"Just... wait."

Sad, lonely.

"I... I really did have a nice time."

Mostly I think about jumping.

"And I don't... I don't usually feel like that."

This is my spot.

"So, could you come back here, tomorrow? Same time."

But maybe it could be our spot.

He smiles at me, "Sure." 

A/N: Yep, veeeeeery vent-y. Sorry. But yeah.