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... either. In this square, confined space, I was an island.

What really made me want to die wasn’t the whispers or the stares. It was the fact that the bread I’d been choking down for weeks—the one I had chewed until I was sick of it—had suddenly appeared in front of me again.

Lunchtime.

Go Yohan, once again, was the culprit.

"You like this, don’t you?"

Is he mocking me? What the hell is this? My blood boiled.

Why did I keep eating that bread for wee ...

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