Some people don’t just exist in your life. They take up space in the best way possible. Bryan was one of those people. He didn’t fade into the background. He didn’t just pass the time. He made moments. He made you laugh when you least expected it. He made an ordinary day feel like an adventure. He made sure you felt his presence, and now, in the quiet spaces where he used to be, his absence is just as loud.

Bryan loved music, especially the kind that carried stories—1980s country, the kind of songs that felt like home. He had a knack for trivia, a talent for guessing how old someone was with uncanny accuracy. He could turn a casual conversation into a game, a guessing match, a moment of laughter. But his love for the past didn’t stop there—he had a deep love for baseball, a passion that started when he was ten and carried him through college and beyond. On the mound, he wasn’t just a player; he was a pitcher, sharp, precise, always in control.

And then there was his love for the eerie, the things that sent a chill down your spine. Maybe it was because he was born on Friday the 13th, a fact he wore like a badge of honor. His fascination with the spooky wasn’t just a passing interest—it was a part of him, inked into his very skin. His arms were covered in tattoos that leaned toward the macabre, art that told a story, that made you look twice, that he was proud of.

But what stands still in time, what lingers most, is a simple moment—a memory of late nights watching Money Heist, the melody of Bella Ciao filling the air as he sang along, a song that became theirs. The show went on, but Bryan didn’t. Finishing it alone felt like turning the last page of a book that wasn’t supposed to end this way.

His loved one would give anything for just one more moment with him. To sit beside him, to hear his voice, to sing that song together one last time. And if they had the chance, they know exactly what they would say. I will love you forever, Bryan. Because love like his doesn’t end. It lingers in the spaces he left behind, in the echoes of laughter, in the warmth of every memory that refuses to fade.

Bryan had a rare gift—the kind that made people better just by knowing him. He was a friend in the truest sense. A storyteller. A comedian without a stage. A baseball player with a golden arm. A lover of ghosts and legends, music and memories. The kind of person who could walk into a room and shift its entire energy without even trying. And that’s what he’d want to be remembered for. Not for the day he left, but for every single moment he spent making life just a little lighter, a little funnier, a little more alive for the people lucky enough to be in his orbit.

And that’s exactly how he will stay. Not just in the memories, but in the moments when laughter slips through the grief, when Bella Ciao plays and it feels like he’s still singing along, when a baseball cracks against a bat and you can almost hear him cheering from somewhere just beyond sight.

Bryan, you were the best kind of person—the kind the world never has enough of. And while life moves forward, your presence remains