Chapter Text
Virgil woke up to his phone buzzing against his nightstand.
Not unusual.
Annoying, yes. Criminally loud, absolutely. But not unusual.
He cracked one eye open and glared at the white plaster ceiling, as if it had personally arranged for his phone to vibrate before he had even agreed to become a person. The phone buzzed again, migrating an inch closer to the edge.
With a low groan, Virgil reached blindly across the wood, knocked over a half-empty water bottle, cursed under his breath, and finally snatched the device.
Saturday. 7:30 AM. Three unread messages.
Logan: Reminder that the library closes early today due to the maintenance inspection.
Patton: Good morning, kiddo! Don’t forget to eat before work! 💙
Roman: Rise and shine, dark and stormy nightmare. The world awaits your scowl.
Virgil stared at the glowing screen for a second, then dropped his phone face-down onto the mattress. Absolutely disgusting. People being that fond before eight in the morning should genuinely be illegal.
He lay there for another full minute, seriously considering the merits of ignoring every social obligation and becoming a full-time cryptid. Unfortunately, rent existed. So did his part-time job at the campus café, and so did his coursework. Tragic, really.
Pushing himself out of bed, Virgil let autopilot take over. Saturday began the exact same way most Saturdays began: Bathroom. Teeth. Black hoodie. Black jeans. Black eyeliner—because if he was forced to participate in capitalism, he was at least going to look like a warning sign while doing it.
Breakfast was a piece of toast, mostly because it required the absolute least amount of emotional investment. Coffee came next. Strong, bitter, and life-saving.
By 8:20, he was out the door. By 8:45, he was behind the counter at the café. And by 9:10, the first wave of university students had descended upon them like caffeine-starved locusts.
Then, at exactly 10:03, Roman walked in.
This, too, was entirely normal. Roman came to the café on Saturdays whenever he managed to be awake early enough—which was often, because Roman apparently woke up with the energy of someone who had personally declared war on silence.
He swept through the door wearing a bright red jacket, gold-rimmed sunglasses pushed carelessly into his hair, and the kind of dramatic expression that suggested he had already experienced three major emotional arcs before breakfast.
Virgil didn’t smile. He did, however, feel a familiar, stubborn knot in his chest settle. It was an unfortunate reaction, and he chose not to examine it.
Roman approached the counter, placing one hand over his heart with ridiculous flair. “Good morning, keeper of the sacred bean.”
Virgil stared blankly at him. “Leave.”
“Cruel.”
“Correct.”
Roman just grinned. Virgil turned toward the register before the corner of his own mouth could betray him. “Usual?”
“Obviously.”
“One iced caramel latte with extra espresso and enough syrup to kill a small Victorian child.”
Roman gasped, highly offended. “It is called having taste.”
“It is called pre-diabetes.”
“Your concern warms me, Emo Knight.”
“It's not concern. It's scientific horror.”
Roman beamed as if that were the highest compliment he’d received all week. Virgil made the drink, slid it across the counter, and watched Roman take his first sip with unnecessary, theatrical reverence.
“Perfect,” Roman declared.
“I know.”
“Modest as ever.”
“Get out of my line, Prince Charming.”
Roman stepped aside with a dramatic flourish. Behind Virgil, his coworker Remy leaned against the espresso machine, pulling down his sunglasses to raise a judgmental eyebrow. “You two are exhausting.”
Virgil ignored him. Roman, of course, did not.
“Thank you!”
“That wasn't praise, babe.”
“I accept it regardless.”
Roman stayed for exactly twenty-three minutes, occupying his usual table by the window. He pretended to review a theatre script, but spent most of his time texting Virgil increasingly stupid memes from twelve feet away. Virgil pretended not to read them. He read every single one.
After his shift ended at one, Virgil grabbed a sandwich, ignored Patton's text asking whether he had eaten, and headed straight to the library.
Logan had been right; it did close early. Virgil knew this because at exactly 4:00 PM, a student assistant announced over the intercom that everyone had thirty minutes to clear out. Virgil packed his books, went home, ate leftover pasta, and did his laundry. He even ignored Roman’s evening text asking to watch a movie because he still had three chapters of assigned reading to suffer through.
Roman sent a wounded dramatic GIF in response. Virgil saved it to his camera roll. For blackmail, obviously.
By 11:42 PM, Virgil crawled into bed, exhausted and vaguely proud of himself for surviving another standard Saturday. He set his alarm, closed his eyes, and slept.
Virgil woke up to his phone buzzing against his nightstand.
He groaned, the sudden sound scraping uncomfortably against his skull. Reaching over, he grabbed his phone and squinted through the morning glare.
Saturday. 7:30 AM. Three unread messages.
Logan: Reminder that the library closes early today due to the maintenance inspection.
Patton: Good morning, kiddo! Don’t forget to eat before work! 💙
Roman: Rise and shine, dark and stormy nightmare. The world awaits your scowl.
Virgil stared. Then he stared harder.
His bedroom was quiet. Too quiet. He sat up slowly, the blankets pooling around his waist. “What the hell?”
The messages remained exactly the same. Same timestamp. Same words. Same stupid nickname. Virgil blinked once, twice, and then checked the actual date on the home screen.
Saturday.
No. That couldn’t be right. It had been Saturday yesterday. Or—Virgil frowned, rubbing a hand over his face. Maybe he had dreamed it? A weird, intensely detailed dream about work, homework, and Roman being annoying. To be fair, his subconscious was deeply committed to making him suffer, so it wasn't outside the realm of possibility.
Still, it had felt incredibly real.
He looked around. The water bottle was upright on his nightstand, but he distinctly remembered knocking it over. His laundry basket was full, but he remembered washing his clothes. His textbook lay closed on his desk, his assigned reading completely untouched.
Virgil stared at his phone again. Saturday.
“Okay,” he said out loud, his voice sounding entirely too loud in the empty apartment. “Cool. Normal. Hate that.”
He went through his morning routine feeling a strange, tight thread caught around his ribs. Bathroom. Teeth. Hoodie. Jeans. Eyeliner. Toast. Coffee. Out the door.
Everything was identical. The exact same guy nearly bumped into him at the corner outside his building. The exact same dog barked from a second-floor balcony. The exact same bus rolled past with the exact same advertisement peeling from its side.
Virgil stopped dead on the sidewalk, watching the bus disappear down the street. His stomach twisted into a sharp, cold knot.
No. Nope. Absolutely not. He was not doing this.
He forced his feet to move and went to work. At 9:10, the first rush hit. At 10:03, the café door chimed, and Roman walked in. Red jacket. Gold-rimmed sunglasses. A smile bright enough to cause property damage.
“Good morning, keeper of the sacred bean.”
Virgil’s fingers tightened around the black sharpie in his hand until his knuckles turned white. Roman tilted his head, his smile faltering slightly. “Virge?”
Virgil forced himself to take a breath. “You’re early.”
Roman blinked. “I am?”
“Not—” Virgil stopped himself. Roman wasn't early. Roman was exactly on time. Exactly like yesterday. His not-yesterday. His maybe-dream.
Virgil cleared his throat roughly. “Never mind.”
Roman studied him, a flash of genuine concern flickering beneath his usual theatrics. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
Roman gave him a look—the exact look he used when he knew Virgil was lying but was deciding whether to let him get away with it.
“Usual?” Virgil asked quickly, desperate to change the subject before Roman could press further.
Roman’s mouth quirked back into a smirk. “Obviously.”
Virgil made the drink. One iced caramel latte. Extra espresso. Too much syrup. Roman stayed for his twenty-three minutes. He texted him six memes. Virgil read all of them.
At one, Virgil finished his shift. At four, the library closed early. At six, he ate leftover pasta.
By 11:42 PM, Virgil lay in bed staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs. It had to have been a dream. Or severe déjà vu. Or stress. Just a neat little psychological nightmare bow.
Tomorrow would be Sunday. It had to be. Virgil closed his eyes and prayed for morning.
Virgil woke up to his phone buzzing against his nightstand.
His eyes snapped open. No. No, no, no.
He snatched his phone so fast it nearly slipped through his trembling fingers.
Saturday. 7:30 AM. Three unread messages.
Logan: Reminder that the library closes early today due to the maintenance inspection.
Patton: Good morning, kiddo! Don’t forget to eat before work! 💙
Roman: Rise and shine, dark and stormy nightmare. The world awaits your scowl.
The entire room seemed to tilt. Virgil sat there, completely frozen, the phone’s harsh light glowing against his pale face. For one long, impossible second, the world stood entirely still.
Then the panic hit. Hard.
Virgil threw the phone onto the blankets like it had physically burned him, scrambling backward until his spine slammed hard against the wooden headboard.
“No.” The word came out thin, pathetic, and barely there. “Nope. No. Absolutely not.”
His breathing shattered into sharp, ragged gasps. His chest tightened painfully, the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.
Saturday. Again. Same messages. Again. Same morning. Again.
He wasn't dreaming. He wasn't stressed. Something was fundamentally broken in the fabric of the universe, and apparently, the universe had decided Virgil was the perfect target to emotionally waterboard with a recurring Saturday. Rude. Unnecessary. Horrific.
He didn't go to work. He didn't text anyone back. He didn't even leave his bed.
For the first hour, he just sat there, staring blankly at the wall. For the second hour, he frantically searched online for any possible explanation, finding absolutely nothing helpful because typing “time loop Saturday please help” mostly returned movie recommendations, sci-fi Reddit theories, and one deeply concerning forum thread about quantum immortality.
For the third hour, out of sheer desperation, he called Logan. Logan answered on the fourth ring.
“Virgil?”
Virgil opened his mouth, but his throat felt entirely dry.
“Virgil?” Logan repeated, his tone sharpening with sudden concern. “Are you all right?”
Virgil let out a laugh. It didn’t sound good. “Hypothetically.”
A beat of heavy silence over the line. “A concerning start.”
“Hypothetically,” Virgil said, his voice shaking despite his best efforts to lock it down, “if someone was experiencing the exact same day repeatedly... what would be the least insane explanation?”
More silence. Then Logan spoke, choosing his words with immense care. “Are you asking for a creative writing premise, or a psychological assessment?”
Virgil squeezed his eyes shut. Right. Of course. Because Logan didn't remember. No one remembered.
“Never mind.”
“Virgil—”
He hung up. He immediately felt terrible about it, but then a wave of cold reality washed over him: it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Tomorrow, Logan wouldn’t remember this call anyway. Because tomorrow wasn't tomorrow. Tomorrow was just Saturday. Again.
By noon, Patton had texted him four times in a row.
Patton: Kiddo? Remy said you missed work. Are you sick?
Patton: Do you need soup? I can bring soup!
Patton: Or crackers. Or emotional support cookies.
Patton: Please text me so I know you have not been eaten by a laundry pile!
Virgil stared at the screen until his eyes burned, but he couldn't bring himself to type a reply. Roman texted a little later, at 1:15.
Roman: Ominous absence from the café today. Should I be concerned?
Roman: Virgil?
Roman: Emo nightmare?
Roman: If you are dead, please haunt me dramatically.
Virgil’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He almost replied. He wanted to. Instead, he locked the phone and shoved it deep under his pillow.
He spent the rest of the day pacing his apartment, checking the clock far too many times. He tried everything to stay awake past midnight, determined to watch the clock tick over. At 11:58, his eyes burned with exhaustion. At 11:59, he sat upright in bed, trembling.
Midnight came. Nothing happened.
12:01. 12:02. 12:03.
Virgil let out a breathless, nearly hysterical laugh. Maybe... maybe it was over. Maybe he had broken the cycle simply by breaking his routine and staying inside. Maybe—
Sleep dragged him under before he could finish the thought.
Virgil woke up to his phone buzzing against his nightstand.
For a long time, he didn't move. He already knew. He knew before he even forced his eyes open, but some stubborn, desperate part of his brain made him reach for the phone anyway.
Saturday. 7:30 AM. Three unread messages.
Logan, Patton, Roman. The exact same words.
Virgil just stared. Then, he laughed—a hollow, awful sound. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Okay.”
He got out of bed. Clearly, panicking did nothing. Hiding did nothing. Staying awake did nothing. So, fine. Saturday it was.
He brushed his teeth, pulled on the black hoodie, and made his toast and coffee, staring at both until they went completely cold. Then, he left for work.
The same guy nearly bumped into him. The same dog barked. The same bus passed by, its peeling advertisement fluttering in the breeze. Virgil just kept walking.
At the café, Remy looked up the moment he walked through the door. “You look like death microwaved, babe.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Not an argument.”
Virgil tied his apron around his waist with numb, shaking fingers and stepped behind the counter. Work happened, and he resented the fact that it did. People ordered drinks. People complained about prices. People asked whether oat milk cost extra despite the massive sign directly in front of their faces. The universe was fundamentally broken, and somehow, customers were still customers.
At 10:02, Virgil’s eyes involuntarily drifted to the door.
At 10:03, the bell chimed. Roman walked in. Red jacket. Gold-rimmed sunglasses. Same impossible smile. Virgil braced his hands against the edge of the counter, anchoring himself.
Roman approached. “Good morning, keeper of the sacred bean.”
Virgil closed his eyes briefly. There it was. The same line. The same Saturday. The same everything.
“Virge?”
Virgil opened his eyes. Roman was watching him—really watching him, his smile dimming into a slight frown. And then, something shifted.
Roman looked up at the menu board. He actually looked at it, staring for an unnaturally long time. Virgil frowned, his chest tightening.
Roman tapped his fingers against the counter once, loud in the quiet space, before looking back at Virgil.
“Green tea.”
Virgil went entirely still. Behind him, Remy dropped a sleeve of paper cups with a loud clatter. Even Remy knew that was wrong.
Roman Sanders did not order green tea. Roman Sanders considered tea something people drank exclusively in period dramas while staring sadly out rain-streaked windows. Roman had once explicitly called green tea “grass water with delusions of grandeur.”
Virgil stared at him, his heart climbing straight into his throat. Roman stared right back, the corner of his mouth twitching. It wasn't a smile. Not quite.
“What?” Virgil whispered.
Roman tilted his head, his eyes locking onto Virgil’s. “So, Emo Nightmare,” he said lightly—entirely too lightly—“where were you yesterday? Skipped work?”
The ambient sounds of the café seemed to instantly fall away. The hiss of the espresso machine, the laughter by the window, the scrape of chairs on tile—it all vanished into static.
Yesterday.
Virgil’s hands gripped the edge of the counter so hard his fingernails dug into the wood. Roman’s eyes were fixed on him now, bright, searching, and suddenly far too sharp to belong to a stranger to the loop.
Virgil swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. “Which yesterday?”
Roman’s expression fractured. Just for a fraction of a second, the theatrical mask cracked completely, and a wave of pure, overwhelming relief flooded his face so quickly it almost hurt to look at.
Then, Roman smiled. It wasn’t his usual dazzling, stage-ready grin. It was something much smaller. Shakier. Real.
“Friday?” Virgil pressed, his voice trembling. “Or the same Saturday?”
Roman let out a long, ragged breath, looking like a man who had been holding his breath underwater for weeks. He leaned his elbows on the counter, looked Virgil dead in the eye, and spoke softly.
“Finally.”
Virgil forgot how to breathe.
Roman’s small smile trembled, a mixture of exhaustion and profound relief. “I’m not alone.”