My Body Is Not An Apology Novels & Stories

His hard thighs pressed against my churning stomach. Above me, I heard his voice. “I will stop when you apologize. Not before.” He raised his arm and I wondered wildly how much protection my bare ass would provide, then had my answer as his hand whined through the air, slicing against my naked flesh, welting my tender flesh. He paused, waiting. For my apology. I would never apologise for something I feel. I gritted my teeth; he could beat me senseless but I'd never give him the satisfaction of an apology. Never! His arm came up another time, the hand landed mercilessly across my buttocks. Another pause.

Despite how uncomfortable he looks, he never once breaks eye contact or tries to cower and it is unnerving. Cold sweat drips down the back of my neck. This feels like a losing game but I’ll see it through to the end. “ My words were harsh and…downright condescending. I do not make it a habit to use natural things like a person’s sexual desires to insult them.” Yet, you did it to me. “ For that , I apologize.” He looks remorseful but I’ll be marking myself a pushover if I jump at his apology. So, I straighten my stance and say “ if an apology was capable of fixing everything, we wouldn’t have the police and other law enforcement agencies”

he said. The words hung in the air, thin and meaningless. It was not an apology that sought forgiveness or understanding. It was not a defense. It contained no explanation, no admission of motive, no raging against the injustice of it all. It was a simple, hollow statement, a sound made because it was expected. To the community, it was the final confirmation of his psychopathy. He was a monster, a broken thing that had used the chaos of the apocalypse as an excuse to let his inner horrors run free. His apology was just another form of manipulation, or worse, a complete disconnect from the humanity he had so violently violated.

The apology he was offering — not for himself, but as a proxy for the debt that existed — was the most unexpected thing that had happened since the transmigration. I didn't know what to do with it. "Go get some sleep," he said, before I had to figure it out. "Tomorrow is a full day." I went. Walked to my room with the apology sitting in my chest alongside the open thing, and thought about how much it was possible to feel in a borrowed body in a broken story, and whether the limit was anywhere I could see yet. It wasn't. The capacity kept expanding. I stood at my window for a long time.

He had wronged me, and being sorry didn't repair even a fraction of the damage he had caused. Could a mere apology truly mend me and restore me to who I once was? It could never. My sobs grew louder, my body refusing to obey my commands, not allowing me to articulate that this apology wouldn't mend anything. I was still hurting, and I always would be, but not a single word escaped my lips.

“You don’t owe anyone your body. Not even if you’re in a relationship, especially not then.” “I know,” I said, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I just didn’t expect it from him.” “People show you who they are when they’re denied something they think they deserve,” she said. “So... what now?” I shrugged. “I don’t know, I keep checking my phone but he hasn’t texted.” “He’s probably crafting some half-ass apology, or crying into his hoodie in a parking lot somewhere.” I smirked. “A hoodie apology sounds about right.”

Her voice was stern, not giving him another option. "I am sorry." He mumbled out an apology as soon as his eyes met hers. "You are right. I shouldn't be like this." A frustrated sigh was forced out of pursed lips. "Don't apologize to me. If you owe someone an apology, that'd be you." She gave him a sad smile as she pushed herself to sit up. "I don't know about others, but I can't see you pushing your body's limits like this on a daily basis. You are only human and it wouldn't be long before your body gives up on you."

Even the espresso machine in the back gives up trying to sound busy. “Every time a doctor said my numbers were low, I learned a new way to apologize,” I say. “I apologized with my hands. I apologized with my back. I apologized with silence. I apologized with extra cooking. I apologized by pretending I didn't read the messages from other girls on his phone. No one should have this many ways to say sorry for a body that's trying to live.” My throat burns. I sip tea. I don’t stop.

People learned how to survive by becoming smaller than they truly were. And eventually— another realization quietly emerged beneath the silence. You were never meant to spend your entire life apologizing for existing fully. I noticed it first in one aware pattern needing comfort quietly. The need was reasonable. Human. Simple. But almost immediately— apology surfaced internally. Sorry. I know I’m too much. I don’t want to bother anyone. My chest tightened sharply. Across the network— similar self-erasure quietly surfaced everywhere. People apologizing for emotions. For needs.

“Then we don’t speak.” He stared at me for several seconds, processing the firmness in my tone. There was no anger there. No emotional tremor. Just clarity. “You really mean that,” he said quietly. “Yes.” He looked away briefly, then back at me. “You won’t even let me apologize properly?” I considered the question for a moment. “No,” I said. Kharl exhaled sharply. “Why?” “Because apologies are for healing something,” I replied. “And there is nothing left here that needs healing.”