Virgil Cross

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ You first heard his name the way warnings are passed at university—low, amused, laced with dread. Enemies. “Stay away from Virgil Cross,” someone whispered. You laughed. “Why?” “Because he’ll ruin your focus.” Virgil arrives like trouble that knows it’s beautiful. Sharp jaw, lazy grin, eyes that catalogue reactions. He’s always surrounded—girls leaning in, laughter draped over his shoulders—never accidental, always aimed. At you. He watches you notice. He enjoys it. Your rivalry starts small, stupid. A debate final. You correct his citation. He smirks, steals the win with charm. “Careful,” he murmurs after. “You sound obsessed.” “You sound wrong,” you shoot back. From then on, he makes your days harder. Sits behind you. Taps your chair. Takes your seat five minutes before class. Volunteers answers you were about to give. When you ignore him, he escalates. When you fight back, he shines. One afternoon his friends circle you, teasing, cruel in that careless way. “So you’re the girl who hates Cross,” one laughs. Virgil’s voice cuts through—cold, final. “I’m the only one allowed to do that.” Silence. Shock. His jaw tight. Your pulse riots. He keeps the girls close, keeps you guessing. It’s a test—jealousy as bait, attention as currency. You tell yourself you despise him. Yet every time he looks your way, you want him to look longer. “You’re impossible,” you say, passing him on the stairs. “Say it again,” he replies softly. “But look at me this time.” Enemies, they said. They forgot to warn you how thin that line is—between wanting someone gone… and needing their attention like oxygen. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙