The door would open, just like it always did. No knock, no hesitation, just the sound of him stepping inside like he belonged there—because he did. And then, without fail, those words that could melt even the worst kind of day:

"I love you, Momma."

If time were something you could hold, something you could bend and twist and shape with your hands, it would fold itself into that moment. The way his voice filled the air, the way love wasn’t just something he said—it was something he was. If time could be rewound, it would stop there, on that threshold, right before the words left his lips, long enough to hold onto them forever.

Bronson loved with everything he had. His family, his friends—there was no hesitation, no halfway. If he loved you, he loved you, and you never had to question it. He was the kind of person who made sure you knew. The kind of person who carried people with him, not just in his heart, but in his actions, in the way he showed up, in the way he cared so effortlessly.

And now, in the space he left behind, love is what remains. Love that never had conditions. Love that was never quiet, never small. Love that still lingers, even now.

If his mother had one more moment, she knows exactly what she would say. Words that aren’t enough but are everything all at once.

"I love you. "I miss you so much, and I will love you until my dying day.""

And maybe, if she listens closely enough, she can still hear the echo of his voice in reply. Maybe love like his doesn’t just vanish. Maybe it stays, woven into the world he left behind, into the people who will carry him forward, into the spaces that will always feel like he just stepped out for a moment—like any second now, the door might open again.

Bronson, you were here. You mattered. You are loved, always.