You thought you were unlovable until you met him. You thought that the world had moved on without you, that the litany of happy couples you'd see walking by from your office window every evening was proof positive from the universe that everyone but you had earned their happy endings. You thought that being consigned to your little desk in your little office in your little building on your little campus was not so bad a fate, really, because at least there was good food to eat and good work to do and good sleep to sleep. What more would a creature like you need?
But oh, miracle of miracles! He sees you. When you would give anything for the people you walk by every day to not notice your existence—to not afford you the injustice of pity, even—his eyes lock with yours and he smiles and he introduces himself and the heavens part and you agree to "grab a coffee" with him because even the devil does not turn down cherubim.
Wednesday evenings are your bedrock. There's a path by student housing, a sandy trail down a hill hidden at first by trees that open up twelve paces in to a scarlet sky at sunset. You no longer walk the path alone after dark, at least on Wednesdays: on Wednesdays the both of you meander down, your hand in his, stopping by a grove of trees near the bottom that covers you on all sides. His breath is honey and ambrosia and everything Prometheus stole from the gods. Was it like this for everyone?
The playful glint in his eyes is absent one Wednesday. The rest of him is there, but—no matter how close you cuddle up to him or how tightly you squeeze his hand on the way down—something about him is missing.
At the grove, he looks around uneasily and steps away from you. You let his hand go with some hesitancy: is this a goodbye? It can't be. You'll fall apart. He shakes his head, as if steeling himself to do something. You lock eyes again and you realize that his are welling up with tears. He struggles to get the words out, but they are clear as day. "Pay your debts at Chez Bob."