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Gola And Friends, 400 Broad Street, Melbourne (2026)

19/09/2026

Jonah's oldest friend grabbed me during his proposal before 2 families watched security remove her screaming.

Part 1
My boyfriend's oldest friend used his emergency key to enter my apartment and rearrange my bedroom because, according to her, "new girlfriends shouldn't interfere with a system that's worked since high school."
I met Jonah Mercer 8 months earlier while inspecting the elevators in the hotel where he managed banquets.
I test brakes, door sensors, and emergency alarms for a living. Most failures announce themselves with a shudder before anything drops.
Jonah seemed steady.
He was patient with delayed dinners, remembered how I took my coffee, and could make a grocery run without calling me from every aisle like a man defusing a bomb. After years of dating projects disguised as adults, competence felt suspiciously luxurious.
Then I met Celia Ward.
She arrived during our 3rd date carrying a paper bag and an expression usually reserved for hospital waiting rooms.
"Jonah, I need you."
Her emergency was a pigeon on her balcony.
Not trapped. Not injured. Merely present.
Jonah drove 25 minutes to move a flowerpot the pigeon had apparently claimed for organized crime. I sat in the restaurant until the waiter stopped asking whether my date was coming back.
"He hates disappointing people," Celia told me later.
She said it warmly, as if she had trained him herself.
They had known each other since they were 14. Jonah's mother called Celia her bonus daughter. Celia kept his parents' anniversary in her calendar, knew which knee hurt before rain, and still had a mug in their kitchen cupboard.
None of that bothered me by itself.
History is not a crime. It is just weight in the car, and you only notice it when the steering starts pulling.
The interruptions kept landing at oddly precise moments.
During our 1st weekend away, Celia called while Jonah was opening the door to our rented cabin. Her kitchen faucet was making a tapping sound.
During the concert I bought him for his birthday, she texted before the opening song because she could not remember the password to a streaming account Jonah had stopped paying for 2 years earlier.
The night he met my father, Celia appeared at the same pub with a tote bag full of Jonah's winter scarves.
"I was clearing storage," she said.
It was July.
Jonah always looked embarrassed, but embarrassment never became refusal.
He would step outside to take her calls. He would promise to stop by later. He would tell me she had been through a lot without ever saying exactly what lot, how recently, or why it required him to leave my table.
When I asked whether she had other friends, he rubbed the back of his neck.
"She does. I'm just the person she trusts."
That answer fit too smoothly, like a key worn down by years of use.
Celia started leaving small claims around Jonah's apartment.
A particular brand of tea he disliked. Slippers in her size beside the radiator. A ceramic bowl for her rings on his bathroom shelf, although she lived across town and had no reason to remove jewelry there.
I moved the bowl under the sink.
It returned the next day.
"Maybe the cleaner put it back," Jonah said.
Jonah did not have a cleaner.
The emergency key had originally belonged to his mother. Celia took possession of it after Jonah locked himself out at 19, and nobody had apparently reviewed that arrangement during the following decade.
I learned this when I came home from an elevator inspection and found my bedroom chair beside the window instead of near the closet.
My work boots had been lined up in the hall. My skin-care bottles were packed into a drawer. Celia's slippers sat beside my bed.
She was in the kitchen, labeling containers.
Jonah stood beside the refrigerator with the expression of a man who had pressed every button and still could not stop the descent.
"Celia thought she'd help us settle in," he said.
I picked up the slippers with 2 fingers.
"Settle into my apartment?"
Celia capped her marker.
"You gave him a key after 6 months."
"He lives here."
"He stays here."
Jonah flinched, but Celia kept looking at me.
There it was. Not jealousy exactly.
Jurisdiction.
I set the slippers inside her tote bag and placed the emergency key beside them.
"You don't enter my home again."
Her face changed so quickly I almost missed it. The helpful concern vanished, leaving something cold and frightened underneath.
Then she began to cry.
Jonah moved toward her automatically.
I caught his sleeve.
He stopped between us, pulled by 2 different systems, both demanding he decide which alarm mattered.
Celia wiped her eyes and picked up the key.
"Fine," she whispered. "When he needs me, don't expect me to clean up your mess."
She left without the slippers.
That evening, Jonah promised he would set boundaries. He sent her a message while I watched, and we celebrated when she replied with a single thumbs-up.
It felt like a repair passing inspection.
For 9 quiet days, his phone stayed silent during dinner.
On the 10th, Jonah booked a private room at a small restaurant for what he called "an important night." He would not tell me why, only that both our families needed to keep the date open.
Celia was not invited.
We were standing in my kitchen when his phone lit up on the counter.
The message included the restaurant's name, the reservation time, and a photograph of the private room taken from its doorway.
Jonah stared at it.
Then another message appeared.
"Tell Mara I already know what you're planning."
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19/09/2026

I was abandoned at 16, and my family waited 9 years before knocking again.

Part 1
My parents abandoned me when I was 16.
They left while I was at school on a wet Thursday in October. By the time I got home, the apartment was empty except for my mattress, 2 trash bags of clothes, and a note folded on the kitchen counter.
I read it standing up.
Then I read it again because the words did not fit together in any arrangement that made sense.
Their bedroom had been stripped. The television was gone. Even the chipped yellow mug beside the sink had disappeared, though my mother had complained about that mug for years.
They had planned it carefully.
That was the part I understood.
The note itself went into my coat pocket. I kept it there until the paper softened at the folds, but I stopped unfolding it. Some damage gets worse each time you test the joint.
I called both of them.
My father's number had been disconnected. My mother's rang twice before sending me to voicemail.
I left a message.
"Mom, I'm home."
My voice sounded younger on the recording than it had inside my head.
I tried again after dark. Then at midnight. Then the next morning from the school office, where the secretary watched me with the careful expression adults use when they know something is wrong but have not decided whose problem it is.
Nobody answered.
For 9 years, neither parent contacted me.
No birthday message. No holiday card. No accidental call followed by an apology. They did not ask whether I had graduated, whether I was alive, or whether the winter coat left in my trash bag still fit.
At 25, I worked in a furniture restoration studio with tall windows and permanently dusty floors. Most days, I repaired things other people had decided were worth saving.
A loose chair leg had a process. A split tabletop had rules. Water damage left a visible edge that could be cleaned, sanded, matched, and sealed.
People were harder because they could deny the crack while standing inside it.
The message arrived at 8:17 on a Tuesday morning.
I was mixing shellac at my workbench when my phone vibrated against the wood. The number was unfamiliar, but the area code belonged to the city where I had grown up.
I almost ignored it.
Then the preview appeared.
"It's Mom. Please call me."
My hand stopped above the jar.
For several seconds, the workshop seemed to lose every sound except the slow tick of solvent dripping from my brush. Across the room, my boss was running a scraper over an old cabinet door. Each stroke lifted a dark curl of varnish.
I read the message again.
There was no apology in it.
There was no explanation either.
Still, my chest reacted before the rest of me could object. Something small and humiliating opened there, like a drawer swollen shut for years finally shifting in its frame.
I typed, "How did you get this number?"
The reply came before I could put the phone down.
"I've been trying to find you."
That sentence made me sit.
I wanted to believe it. Wanting was automatic, an old reflex I had never managed to sand out completely.
I stared at her contact photo, which was only a gray circle because I had never saved her number. My thumb hovered over the call button.
My boss glanced toward me.
"You all right?"
"I don't know yet."
The phone vibrated again.
"Your father wants to talk too. We miss you."
I locked the screen.
For the rest of the morning, I measured every cut twice and trusted none of them. At lunch, I took the note from the metal box beneath my workbench.
I had carried that box through 9 years and 4 addresses without reading what was inside.
I did not open it then.
At 5:42, after everyone else had left, the front buzzer sounded.
The studio was closed.
I wiped my hands on my apron and checked the small security monitor beside the office door. A woman stood on the pavement beneath the exterior light, holding her phone against her chest.
Her hair was shorter and mostly gray.
I still knew her immediately.
My mother looked directly into the camera and pressed the buzzer again.
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19/09/2026

Darlene told 34 relatives about my miscarriage; I told a larger crowd her betrayal.

Part 1
My mother-in-law displayed my private grief for an audience, and I eventually returned the favor with a larger crowd watching.
At 7:12 on a Thursday morning, I was kneeling on the bathroom tile with blood soaking through my pajama bottoms.
The grout lines kept sliding out of focus.
I restore damaged paintings for a living. When something cracks in my hands, I know how to stabilize it, what pressure it can bear, and which solvents will strip away more than dirt.
That morning, I could not even make my fingers dial correctly.
My husband, Evan, found me gripping the side of the bathtub. He wrapped me in a gray towel, carried me to the car, and drove through 3 red lights while I stared at a dark stain spreading across the fabric.
At the hospital, the doctor spoke quietly.
There was no heartbeat.
I watched her mouth move after that, but the words stopped adhering. They slid off like varnish on an oily surface.
Evan held my hand until my wedding ring cut into both our fingers.
On the drive home, I made him promise that nobody would know.
Not his friends. Not his cousins. Not his mother, Darlene.
Especially not Darlene.
She had a way of entering private rooms without knocking, then acting wounded when anyone noticed. She knew the alarm code to our house, kept a spare key, and called Evan every evening at 8:30 to ask questions that sounded casual until I heard my answers repeated by strangers.
Evan kept his eyes on the road.
"I promise."
"You mean it?"
"Nobody hears it from me."
For 11 days, our loss belonged only to us.
Then Darlene invited us to Sunday lunch.
Evan said refusing would create questions. I lacked the strength to argue, so I wore a loose green dress and stood beside him in his parents' crowded dining room while 34 relatives balanced paper plates on their knees.
Darlene tapped a spoon against her glass.
The room settled.
She crossed to me, placed her hand against my stomach, and smiled with the solemn patience of someone posing beside a donation check.
"We need to support Mara," she said. "She lost the baby, and she is not handling it well."
A fork struck a plate.
Somebody whispered my name.
Every face turned toward me.
The room smelled of glazed ham, furniture polish, and the lilies Darlene arranged in every available jar. I remember those details because shock works like a bad conservator. It preserves the useless parts and scrapes away what matters.
Evan stared at his mother.
I stared at Evan.
Darlene rubbed my arm.
"Grief makes people unpredictable," she continued. "So if she says anything alarming, please call me or Evan."
I stepped away from her hand.
"Who told you?"
Darlene's expression tightened by less than an inch.
"This is not the time."
"You just made it the time."
Several relatives lowered their plates. Others looked at Evan, waiting for him to restore order.
He touched my elbow.
"Mara, please."
That word did more damage than Darlene's announcement.
Please meant do not embarrass my mother.
Please meant absorb this quietly.
Please meant the promise had already been repainted.
I walked out without my coat.
By Monday afternoon, Evan's cousin had messaged him to ask whether I was safe alone. On Tuesday, his aunt offered the name of a psychiatric clinic. By Wednesday, Darlene had told people I screamed at her, threw a glass, and threatened to disappear.
I had done none of those things.
Evan began watching me whenever I opened the medicine cabinet.
At night, he turned his phone facedown. When I asked what his mother was saying, he told me I was searching for enemies because grief needed somewhere to go.
Darlene arrived Friday using her key.
She found me in the kitchen and set a folder on the counter. Inside were printed pages about emergency mental health evaluations, each sentence highlighted in yellow.
"You need rest," she said.
"You need to leave."
Her gaze shifted toward the hallway, checking whether Evan could hear.
Then she moved close enough that the folder pressed into my ribs.
"You are making him choose during the worst period of his life."
I almost laughed.
The arithmetic was impressive. I had lost the pregnancy, but somehow Evan had inherited the tragedy.
Darlene lowered her voice.
"If you keep attacking this family, we will protect him."
Evan entered the kitchen as I shoved the folder away.
Darlene stumbled backward, caught herself on the counter, and covered her wrist with her other hand.
Nothing had touched her wrist.
"Evan," she whispered.
He looked at the folder on the floor, then at his mother, then at me.
Darlene said nothing else. She did not need to.
Evan picked up my overnight bag from beside the pantry, set it at my feet, and opened our front door.
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18/09/2026

I exposed my husband's affair aloud before 34 parents at our party

Part 1
My husband's mistress crashed our daughter's birthday party, so I exposed them before 34 parents.
I had already confirmed the affair 12 days earlier.
The proof lived in a locked folder on my phone, backed up twice and left untouched. I inspect elevators for a living, which means I trust cables, records, and emergency brakes more than I trust anybody saying, "You misunderstood."
I had not misunderstood.
Still, our daughter Mara was turning 9, and I wanted her party to remain outside the wreckage. Children should not have to inspect the machinery holding up their parents.
I booked the community firehouse for a Saturday afternoon because it had 2 exits, washable floors, and no liquor license. Every family from Mara's astronomy club came, along with neighbors, cousins, and several parents from her school.
There were 34 adults in the room when Celeste Vann walked through the side door.
I knew her face.
She wore a cream coat, red lipstick, and the calm expression of a woman arriving somewhere she expected to be noticed. She carried no child, no invitation, and no apology.
My husband, Darren, was helping Mara operate the hand-cranked badge press near the windows.
The machine stamped silver paper circles with tiny planets. Darren saw Celeste over Mara's head, and his hand stopped halfway down on the lever.
That half-finished Saturn told me everything his mouth had not.
My friend Nessa stood beside me holding a tray of blank badges. She followed my stare, then looked at Darren.
"Is that her?"
I nodded.
Celeste took her time crossing the room.
Parents shifted aside for her, assuming she belonged to somebody. That is how unsafe people enter safe places. They borrow everyone else's manners.
Darren abandoned the badge press and intercepted her beside the coat rack.
"What are you doing here?"
He kept his voice low, but panic carries. It vibrates through a room like a lift car running on a damaged guide rail.
Celeste smiled at him.
"You weren't answering."
"This is Mara's party."
"I know whose party it is."
Her eyes moved past him and landed on me.
Then she smiled wider.
I had spent 12 days saying nothing while Darren complained about traffic, kissed my cheek, and asked whether we needed more juice boxes. I had packed his suitcase that morning and hidden it behind the locked door of my inspection van.
I had also rehearsed what I would say if he forced the issue.
I had not rehearsed Celeste.
She came straight toward me, weaving between paper constellations hanging from fishing line. A boy bumped the badge table, and a pile of silver moons slid onto the floor.
Nobody bent to pick them up.
"You must be Lena," Celeste said.
Her tone was soft enough to sound polite from across the room. Up close, it had teeth.
"And you weren't invited."
"I thought we should stop pretending."
Behind her, Darren made a small choking sound.
Nessa set down the tray.
Across the room, Mara was showing her cousin how to stamp a comet. The press squeaked each time the handle came down, regular as a warning bell.
Celeste glanced toward the children.
"Maybe not here, then."
She had come to my daughter's party uninvited, crossed a room full of people I knew, and suggested restraint as if it were her idea.
I almost admired the structural defect.
"You picked here," I said.
"I came because Darren keeps delaying things."
Darren reached for her elbow.
She pulled away before he touched her.
That movement caught the attention of the parents nearest us. Conversations thinned around the room, then stopped in patches.
Darren looked at me.
"Lena, can we talk outside?"
Celeste gave a short laugh.
"No. She deserves to hear it."
The badge press squeaked again.
I watched Darren's face lose color. His hand hovered near my shoulder, not touching me, as if he had forgotten whether husbands were still allowed to do that.
Celeste mistook my silence for shock.
"He said you knew there were problems," she said. "He said this marriage has been finished for a long time."
A father beside the coffee urn froze with the sugar tongs suspended over his cup.
Nessa moved closer to me.
Darren lowered his voice.
"Celeste, stop."
"Why?" she asked. "You said she never listens unless she's embarrassed."
There it was.
Not the affair. I had already survived finding that.
It was the confidence.
She believed she had arrived carrying the only version of events. She believed Darren had prepared the room for her, even though he had not managed to prepare himself.
I took my phone from my pocket.
Darren saw it and stepped forward.
"Lena."
I unlocked the folder.
Celeste's smile held for another moment, supported by nothing she could see.
Then I turned toward all 34 parents and read the 1st line aloud.
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18/09/2026

Calder Chose Maren for 5 Weeks and Lost Every Dollar

Part 1
My fiance was taking another woman on our pre-wedding trip.
Calder told me this on a Tuesday night while I was kneeling beside a dead dishwasher in a restaurant kitchen, elbow-deep in gray water and lemon seeds.
I repair commercial appliances for a living. Most breakdowns announce themselves with heat, noise, or a smell that makes everyone evacuate.
Calder had learned to fail quietly.
He called the trip a 5-week "reset" through coastal Portugal with his closest friend, Maren Vale. They had already booked the flights, apartments, and a rental car.
Our wedding was 11 weeks away.
"You hate flying," I said.
"I hate stressful travel."
He paused just long enough to make the distinction feel medical.
"Maren knows how to keep things light."
That had become his favorite measurement for women.
Maren was light. I was heavy.
Maren was spontaneous. I needed control.
Maren asked questions. I interrogated.
Whenever I objected to something Calder did, Maren had apparently reviewed the evidence before I even knew there was a case.
"Maren thinks you're catastrophizing."
"Maren says couples need independent lives."
"Maren noticed you take everything personally."
I had never asked Maren to inspect my personality. She did it anyway, like an unlicensed technician taking apart a machine and leaving the screws in a coffee cup.
Calder and I had been together for 7 years.
We had paid deposits on a restored mill outside Bellweather, chosen cedar-colored napkins, and argued for 3 evenings over whether his cousin's children should be allowed near an open dessert table.
I had altered my grandmother's wedding dress because Calder said buying a new dress would be wasteful.
Then he spent $4,800 on what he called a personal growth journey with Maren.
When I asked why I had not been included in the discussion, he sighed.
Not angrily. Almost tenderly.
That was worse.
"This reaction is exactly why I couldn't tell you sooner."
The logic was clean enough to admire. My objection to being deceived became the reason deception had been necessary.
Machines cannot do that.
A freezer may destroy $9,000 in food overnight, but it never claims the spoiled shrimp forced it to lie about the compressor.
During the next 3 weeks, Calder prepared for Portugal with the concentration he had avoided during every wedding appointment.
Packages arrived daily.
Linen shirts. Leather sandals. A camera he said would help him become more present.
Maren posted a photograph of 2 matching passport covers on her social media account. Hers said WANDER. His said WONDER.
Calder commented with 3 sailboat emojis.
When I asked about it, he told me humor was healthy.
Then he asked why I was monitoring Maren.
I stopped asking questions aloud.
Instead, I watched.
Calder started taking calls on the balcony. He tilted his phone away when I entered rooms. He changed his passcode after using the same 6 digits for years.
Every small change could have been innocent by itself.
That is how serious faults hide. A loose wire looks harmless until the whole housing is hot enough to blister skin.
The proof arrived because Calder forgot that his tablet mirrored his phone.
I had borrowed it to confirm the address of our florist. A message banner appeared while I was holding it.
MAREN: If she can't handle Portugal, she won't handle the marriage test.
I should have put the tablet down.
I did not.
Their conversation was already open.
Calder had told Maren he needed to know whether I could become "less rigid" before the wedding. Maren suggested the trip as pressure, not a vacation.
If I accepted it, I was finally learning my place in the relationship.
If I protested, Calder would have proof that I was possessive.
Either response gave them the same answer.
They discussed me like a defective control board they could stress until the weak circuit burned black.
Then I reached a message sent 4 nights earlier.
CALDER: When I get back, I want a calmer home. No scorekeeping. No constant challenges. She needs to trust my judgment and stop acting like every decision requires her approval.
MAREN: Then stop requesting permission. Set the standard now.
CALDER: She'll call it disrespect.
MAREN: She calls anything disrespectful when she's not in charge.
Calder had reacted with a heart.
I photographed the entire conversation with my phone, including the dates and names. Then I returned the tablet to the exact angle where I had found it.
For 6 days, I said nothing.
Calder mistook silence for progress.
He became almost cheerful. He whistled while packing. He praised me for "giving him space" and suggested I use his absence to work on being more supportive.
On Friday evening, he came into the kitchen wearing his new linen shirt.
His suitcase stood by the front door. Maren was waiting outside in the rental car, engine running.
Calder placed his phone facedown on the counter.
"We need to have a serious talk before I leave," he said.
I set the printed messages between us.
His flight departed in 4 hours.
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18/09/2026

I Made All 4 of Us Sit Through the School Fundraiser

Part 1
I knew my husband was cheating, and before I was done, I made him sit through every minute of what he had broken.
But on the Saturday I first saw them together, I still wanted another explanation.
I wanted traffic, confusion, a broken phone, a staffing emergency. Anything ordinary enough to fit inside the life Ben and I had built over 14 years.
I spend my workdays transcribing court hearings, turning tangled voices into a clean record. You learn quickly that people reveal themselves through corrections.
Not the original answer.
The correction.
For 4 months, Ben had been correcting everything I noticed.
His phone had not buzzed at 11:40 p.m. I had heard the dishwasher.
He had not changed his shirt before going back to the office. He had spilled coffee on the blue one.
He had never said he hated running. I was confusing that with cycling.
Apparently, I had also misplaced his charcoal sweater, forgotten his new phone code, imagined a trace of citrus perfume in our car, and become strangely interested in where he spent his lunch breaks.
Ben said I was exhausted.
That part was true. We had 2 children, a leaking shower, and a school calendar designed by someone who hated employed parents.
I handled pickups, dentist appointments, permission slips, groceries, birthday gifts, and the quiet midnight work of remembering which child needed poster board by morning.
Ben handled telling me I looked tired.
That Saturday was the winter fundraiser at our daughter's primary school. I arrived early with 3 trays of supermarket brownies and a roll of raffle tickets cutting into my palm.
Ben was supposed to come later.
He had a client call, he said. He might miss the choir performance, but he would try.
At 2:17 p.m., I was standing beside the tombola table when his car turned into the school lot.
I recognized it by the strip of silver tape covering a crack in the rear light. Ben had promised to book the repair for 6 weeks, which made the tape more reliable than the license plate.
He did not park near the entrance.
He stopped beside the portable classrooms, where the fence blocked most of the view from the hall.
The passenger door opened.
A woman stepped out wearing a cream coat and carrying a cardboard box against her hip.
I had seen her before in photographs from Ben's regional meetings. Not beside him, exactly. Close enough that cropping would have required care.
Ben got out and looked toward the school entrance before walking around to help her.
His hand settled at the small of her back.
Not for balance.
Not by mistake.
It landed there with the accuracy of repetition.
The raffle tickets tightened in my fist until the metal staple pressed into my skin.
A father beside me was explaining that the chocolate hamper contained nuts. I nodded as if nuts were the immediate danger.
Ben and the woman separated before reaching the main path.
She walked ahead with the box. He waited, counted something on his phone, then followed after enough time had passed to make their separate arrival look plausible.
It was badly staged.
That hurt more.
Ben knew I noticed continuity errors for a living, yet this was the effort he thought I deserved.
I moved behind the refreshments table and began arranging paper cups. The cups were already arranged, but nobody challenges a woman carrying out pointless labor at a school event.
The woman entered first.
She gave the box to a teacher and said her company had donated the auction prizes. Her voice was bright and professional.
Then she looked across the hall at Ben.
The brightness dropped from her face before she rebuilt it.
A correction.
Ben came through the doors 40 seconds later, shaking rain from his jacket. He kissed my cheek and smelled faintly of the same citrus scent I had apparently invented.
"Made it," he said.
"So you did."
His eyes flicked toward the auction table.
The woman had turned away, but her shoulders had gone rigid beneath the cream coat.
Ben reached for a brownie and missed the tray by an inch.
"Who came with you?" I asked.
"No one."
The answer arrived too fast.
Behind him, our daughter ran into the hall wearing silver cardboard wings, and Ben used her excitement like an emergency exit. He crouched, hugged her, and asked about her song.
I watched the woman watch him being a father.
She did not look jealous.
She looked familiar with the performance.
During the choir, Ben stood beside me with his hands folded. The woman remained near the back wall, half hidden by a display of painted snowmen.
Every time the room applauded, they checked for each other.
Never together.
Always close enough.
When the final song ended, parents surged toward the children. Chairs scraped. Phones lifted. Ben leaned close to tell me he needed the restroom.
He walked in the opposite direction.
I followed at a distance, keeping 2 families between us.
He stopped beside the darkened library doors. The woman appeared from the corridor and reached up to straighten his collar.
Ben covered her hand with his.
Then he looked past her shoulder and saw me walking toward them.
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Gola And Friends

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