Buggy had a laugh that stuck with you, the kind that could shake the weight off a heavy day. He was funny without trying, talented in ways he never fully believed, and had a heart much bigger than he ever let on. He could be grumpy, sure—but that never stopped him from caring. He never liked to see people cry, and he hated for anyone to see him cry, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel things deeply.

He loved music, crafting, and fishing. He found pieces of himself in them, the same way people found pieces of themselves in him. His hands were always busy, his mind always working, even if he never gave himself the credit he deserved.

If his loved one could go back, they wouldn’t need some big moment—just to see him again, to hear that laugh, to know he was still right there. And if they had one more chance to speak, they know exactly what they’d say. I love you, and I’m sorry for the last thing I said to you. Because love was always there, even when the words didn’t come out right.

Buggy was the kind of person who fills a room without even trying, and now, the spaces he once stood in feel quieter. But his presence hasn’t faded. It lingers in the echoes of his laughter, in the things he created, in the love that refuses to disappear just because he’s gone.