Brandon Bolton was more than just my childhood best friend; he was the one who taught me the true meaning of friendship itself. He was a builder of bridges in a world that often feels divided, a person who effortlessly connected people, ideas, and moments, making life feel fuller, warmer, and more meaningful.

As I grapple with this profound loss, my mind repeatedly returns to a vivid memory: Brandon’s sixth-grade Halloween party. Given his deep love for horror movies and Halloween, this was a monumental event for him, meticulously planned down to every detail. Yet, what I cherished most about that night wasn’t the decorations, the costumes, or even the treats—it was his unwavering dedication to connecting the friendships we had made in elementary school with the new chapter of middle school we were just beginning. That party perfectly encapsulated who he was: someone who found immense joy in bringing the people he loved together, in creating moments of shared happiness and genuine connection. Brandon was, truly, a bridgemaker.

Many of my best childhood memories are intertwined with Brandon, and when I think of him, I think of movies. He adored seeing every new release in theaters each weekend, and his loving mother, Linda, would selflessly drive us. Through those trips, Brandon became my bridge to a lifelong love of movies and television. Back when physical media was still a thing, he was a passionate collector, and he eagerly shared his world with me. I wasn’t a horror fan, but because Brandon encouraged me to sit through the first Halloween movie, I discovered an appreciation for the genre I never thought I’d possess. In countless small ways, Brandon broadened my horizons, opening me to new experiences and helping me see the joy in things I might have otherwise overlooked.

I always think of him when I recall the Final Destination series. We dedicated an entire weekend to binge-watching it—long before “binge-watching” was even a recognized term. And he would always reciprocate, sitting through films I loved that weren’t his cup of tea, like Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. Brandon never judged. He never made you feel small or wrong for your passions; he simply shared them, and that generosity of spirit is something I’ll never forget.

I’ll also never forget watching the annual Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards with Brandon and the group of friends he helped build in elementary school. Brandon wasn’t a fan of being the center of attention, but he was the connecting bridge between me and my best childhood memories, bringing people together with his authentic appreciation for others.

Brandon was there for the big milestones, too. He tagged along on my first date with a girl in middle school—a group outing to the movies. Years later, he was there for my first date with a boy after I came out in high school, also a group trip to the movies. Through every chapter, every transition, he never wavered. His support was steady, unconditional, and quiet in its strength. He was simply present for those he loved, no questions asked, no judgments made. He was always the best friend he had always been.

Brandon Bolton had a rare gift: he built bridges not only between people but between hearts, passions, and moments in time. He made life richer, brighter, and fuller simply by being himself. And though he is gone, the bridges he built remain—in the memories we carry, in the love he gave, and in the enduring example of friendship he set for all of us.