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Humans were made to commit mistakes and to learn from them.

That was the thought that kept running in my mind since Kayla and I arrived at Patrick's place. It had been an hour already, and we were now down to our dessert.

Henry pulled out the you-kids-never-come-over-anymore card and said that we could only redeem ourselves by staying little longer for dinner. So, being the guilty-as-charged young people that we were, we decided to stay.

The meal was marvelous, as we told him. It was simple, yet fullfilling. The beef casserole was mouth watering and his potato salad was just to die for. And the best part of it? We were waiting for another of Henry's signature desserts - his triple layered coffee cake with vanilla frosting and cashew nuts.

According to Patrick, Henry's grandparents or Patrick's great grandparents, used to own a small bakeshop in the next town back in the forties. But due to some unexpected turn out of events, the business had to close down, leaving only the recipes that Henry's grandmother passed on to him. One of which was the coffee cake that he was currently cutting in the kitchen after yelping a loud Ooo! I almost forgot the cake that made us erupt in fits of laughter.

"George read your essay," Patrick suddenly said.

Surprised by his statement, I placed my spoon down and leaned in closer to the table. "My essay? Which one?"

"The one pinned at the cork board inside my room. About friends. She said that it's amazing." A smile grew on both of our faces as the memory of an essay written on a bright yellow scented paper came to my mind.

It was my fifteenth birthday gift for Partick that came along with a brand new, black The Beatles shirt. That was the time when I was still testing out my skills. I knew that I liked writing, but I wasn't quite sure of the craft and I was on the phase of writing multiple essays a day.

Giving him an essay was a spur of the moment kind of thing that a love-struck fifteen year old me, did back then. I wanted to give him something a little personal, so I came up with writing an essay about friends. Truth be told, I was tempted to write him a letter. But I knew that if I let myself to write one, I would've confessed my unrequited feelings for him (that now I realized, wasn't quite unrequited after all).

"I'm glad she liked it. It's not much, though," I said, still smiling at him even though all I wanted to do was cringe at the memory of my punctuation, spelling and technique back then.

I heard Kayla snort beside me. Her typical reaction whenever I sell myself short. "Oh, will you stop that. We both know you're good. If there's one person who should always believe that, it should definitely be you."

Stephen nodded his head. "Kayla's right, A. George doesn't know you on a personal level and thinks that you're amazing with just one piece! What more if she gets to know you and see your other works?"

To say I was overwhelmed was an understatement. There was just something about compliments that I could never get used to. Admittedly, the first ones were always remarkable. They bring those tickling feeling that travels from the very depth of your stomach up to your nervously pounding heart. It always felt like small tongues of fire that tickles your heart. But nevertheless, all compliments - whether it was from someone I knew well or a total stranger, these compliments still make my throat clog with thick emotion of gratitude and bliss, making it impossible for me to utter anything at all. Getting used to it was an impossiblity.

I couldn't come up with something to say that could ever represent the kind of gratefulness I was feeling. So hoping that it would be enough, I only offered them a small, grateful grin and proceeded to dig my spoon into my bowl of potato salad, leaving the topic as it was.