Four Ghosts (iv) | short stories
(iv): The Boy Who Never Apologized
There were two versions of him.
The one I loved, and the one who came after.
He used to have fire in his chest. Not rage—just this restless kind of spark, like he was made of something that needed to move or else he’d collapse. He ran everywhere, even when he didn’t have to. Talked too much in class, drummed his fingers on the desk until someone told him to stop. Played basketball like he was chasing something no one else could see. Spoke with his hands. Argued with teachers when he thought the rules were wrong. Said things like “I think we’re meant for more than this,” even when no one was listening. He had a crooked smile, the kind that looked like it had fought its way through childhood. Everyone liked him. Not because he tried, but because he didn’t have to.
And I loved him for that.
I loved how boyish he was— loud, unafraid and so sure of himself. Not in the sharp way boys usually are. He was all elbows and grins and bruised knees. The kind of boy who built paper planes during detention and passed them to me folded into frogs. Who asked dumb questions just to see me roll my eyes. The kind of boy who told me, once, in eighth grade, “If you ever go missing, I’ll start a war.” I believed him. He would.
He always wore his backpack too low. Carried half-eaten chocolate bars in his pocket. Drew cartoons on the edges of his worksheets — little robots with flame-throwers or aliens eating the moon. Once, in seventh grade, he made me a birthday card out of notebook paper. Folded it into a spaceship. Wrote, “to the girl who made Pluto sad.” I kept it taped inside my journal for three years.
He called me Pluto after that. Said I was cold and far away but still orbiting something. He made it sound like love.
But people like that — people who shine too hard too young — they don’t stay untouched for long.
High school made things different. Not worse — just wider. He still smiled like nothing had changed. Still dropped his books and made dumb jokes in the hallway. But the space between us grew. He had new friends. Taller ones. Louder ones. I don’t think it was intentional. It just happened. Maybe it was me. Maybe I started pulling away. Maybe I thought I had to. But sometimes he’d still look for me in the cafeteria, and when he found me, he’d flash that same crooked grin. And I’d smile back. Small. Quick. Pretending it didn’t hurt.
I don’t know exactly what happened. I don’t know who he hurt. I only know what they said. That he did something behind the gym. That it wasn’t consensual. That a girl cried. That he didn’t deny it.
They said it happened after practice. That he stayed behind to clean up the balls, and she came back for her phone. They said he cornered her. That it started as a joke, but turned into something else. Someone said they heard her yell. Someone else said she didn’t yell at all. That she just froze.
They said her hands were shaking when she told someone. That she kept saying, “I didn’t want to. I didn’t say yes.”
No one knew if they had been close. If they had kissed before. If something had ever happened between them at all.
But it didn’t matter.
Because once the story started breathing, it grew teeth.
The halls filled with theories. People whispered during chem labs, between locker slams, while waiting for the bell to ring. “She was crying in the nurse’s office.” “He didn’t even try to explain.” “He looked right at her and walked away.”
No one ever said her name out loud. But everyone said his.
And it was like the whole school flipped inside out.
The boys he played basketball with turned on him like wolves. First it was silence. Then it was war. They tripped him during drills. Slammed his head against the bleachers. Locked him in the locker room and left him there for an hour. He came to class the next day with a busted lip and bruises peeking out from his collar. Someone whispered, “He deserves it.” No one disagreed. Not even me.
They caught him in the bathroom once. Four of them. One held his arms back. The other punched until his own knuckles bled.
When they left, they wrote MONSTER in Sharpie across his chest. He didn’t wash it off. Just zipped up his hoodie.
He never fought back. But he didn’t apologize either.
That’s what made it worse. The silence. The way he still walked the same path to school. Sat in the same chair in third period. Looked at everyone like nothing had changed.
I think people would’ve forgiven him if he’d said sorry. Or cried. Or disappeared. But he didn’t. He stayed. Like maybe if he remained the same, the story would too.
And me, I didn’t know what to do with that.
I wanted to hate him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to say, “How could you?” But every time I saw him, all I could think about was that crooked grin. That birthday card. That stupid nickname. The way he once leaned his head on my shoulder in the back of a bus and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but I like being near you.”
So I said nothing.
The cruelty toward him didn’t come with laughter. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t mockery. It was punishment.
Every hit came from a place of anger. Of betrayal. Of boys who had once let him into their homes, now shoving his head into a sink because they couldn’t stand what he reminded them of. Every shove said: You’re not one of us anymore.
And every time - every time they spit at his feet, every time they slammed his head against the lockers, I just watched. And inside, I begged, Please stop fighting. Please. Maybe they’ll stop if you do.
He never did. But he never hit first.
Sometimes, he’d look up mid-beating. Spit blood. Smile with a split lip. Sometimes, I thought he liked the pain. Like it made him feel clean. Like it helped him pay.
But he still never said sorry. Not to anyone. Not once. Not even to me.
There was one time, near the end of it all, when I was walking home. He was a few steps ahead. Limping. His hood was up. He turned when he saw me, slowed down.
We walked side by side in silence. Our shadows long and crooked on the sidewalk.
Then he said, “Do you think I’m evil?”
His voice was quiet. Like it was still him, but underneath all the bruises.
And I wanted to answer. I wanted to say yes, I wanted to say no, But all I could think was, I don’t know. I don’t know who you are anymore.
So I didn’t say anything. Just kept walking.
He never asked again.
The last time I saw him, he was standing in the rain outside the principal’s office. Soaked. Shivering. His binder was open. Someone had written RAPIST across it in thick black marker. The letters were running down the page like blood.
He wasn’t crying. He was humming.
A soft tune. Familiar. I realized later — it was the song he always sang at the arcade. The one we’d dance to badly, laughing, when we had quarters to spare.
And when he saw me, he smiled.
Not with pride. Not with apology. Just like he’d thought of something sweet, and wanted me to know he remembered it too.
I didn’t smile back. I couldn’t.
He left the next day. No announcement. No whisper. No goodbyes.
Just a chair that stayed empty. A locker that was cleared out before first bell. Someone said his mom packed up everything in a single night. That they moved out of state. That he’s never coming back.
People were relieved. Said it was good. Said it was justice. Said it was over.
I wasn’t relieved. Not because I missed him. But because it felt like someone ripped a page out of a book and tossed it into a fire before you finished reading.
A week later, I found something in my locker. No envelope. Just a folded note tucked into the spine of my history textbook.
Inside, in his messy handwriting:
“Remember when you told me Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore, and I got so mad I didn’t talk to you for a week? You were right. I knew that. But I liked pretending it still counted.”
And below it,
“Some things are too small to orbit on their own. But I still remember where you are.”
That was it.
I read it four times. Then a fifth. Then folded it back up and kept it in my coat pocket for three months.
I don’t carry it anymore. But I haven’t thrown it away either.
Sometimes I still walk past that basketball court where he used to stay late, throwing shot after shot even when it was dark and no one was watching. It’s empty now. But I swear I can still hear the bounce of a ball, the scrape of sneakers, the laugh of a boy who used to shine so brightly he lit up everything around him.
And I think about the version of him that was mine. The version I still love. The version who made Pluto feel like a planet again.
And the version of him I’ll never understand. The version I can’t forgive. The one who did something he never said sorry for.
But he remembered.
And somehow, that still hurts more.