Small critters scurry across the trash heap that his bed has slowly become over what feels like years of neglect when, in reality, hasn't even hit the three-month mark, covered with candy and junk-food wrappers, crumbled-up pieces of paper, 'used' silicone flesh-lights he'd bought from sketchy websites with whatever birthday money he had left, and whatever else he's not had the courage to get rid of.
He leans under the covers, trying his best to ignore the bugs that crawl up and down his thighs, some travel even further, making their ways up to his arms, but he doesn't pay them any attention.
Swatting them away does nothing. Kill one, and dozens more come to feast on the flesh of their fallen brethren.
His room is filthy.
He knows that much.
But even worse, is what his mind has become.
To allow something like this in the first place.
His parents, F/N and M/N, tell him about it all the time. "Why can't you just clean your room?" "It's not that hard," they say.
But it is that hard. For him at least.
Picking up so much as one wrapper is like trying to move mountains.
And no matter how many times he tries telling them that, they never listen to him. Because why would they?
He's the 'disappointment son', the one who dropped out of high-school because of 'what mean kids were saying about him,' as if it wasn't deeper than that.
Y/N can never tell them that-- what really happened, but doubts they'd care anyway.
Not when they're so busy foaming at the mouth over his younger brother, Y/B/N (Younger brother name) who, in their eyes, can do no wrong.
The perfect son. Perfect boyfriend. Perfect friend. Perfect student.
Everything that he's not.
So why bother, when you're never going to measure-up anyway?
His phone, sitting beside him, the tips of his fingers brushing against the protective case to ensure it's long-lasting life, buzzes to life with a new notification.
He snatches the device from his bed the second he feels a vibration, even though he knows its likely from Youtube, Twitch, or Reddit.
And, if he's lucky, hopefully its from Twitter with another leak.
For a second Y/N cringes in embarrassment from how much of a loser he sounds. And is just glad that no one can see into his innermost thoughts.
But it's not from any of what he thought it'd be.
His eyes read over a familiar number, one that used to have a contact to go with it just a few months ago now, and immediately, his heart drops, all the way down to his feet if the organ could.
###-###-####: "Can you please just answer my text messages? I know we left off on bad terms, but, I really want to talk. Even if its to hear you want nothing to do with me, just please, answer your phone."
He immediately shuts his phone off and rolls on his side.
There's not much to say to her. Not after what she did to him. That being part of the reason why he dropped out in the first place.
Which is why texting her back would be bad.
It'd be an awful decision.
Terrible.
YOU ARE READING
Reincarnated into My Hero Academia!
FanfictionY/N L/N is the textbook definition of a loser. Dropping out of high-school at the young age of sixteen-years-old, after being relentlessly bullied all the way from middle-school into his early high-school years, Y/N finds himself couped up in his ro...
