Dakota doesn’t talk about Colten softly.
He talks about him
like someone still trying to hold onto a fire
after it had already burned out.
Like if he keeps telling the stories,
keeps saying his name enough,
His little brother won’t disappear completely.
Sometimes late at night
when we’re all sitting around quietly,
Dakota starts talking about the old days.
And you can see it in his face immediately—
that mix of love and heartbreak
That only older brothers understand.
He told us once about this random night
When Colten was around fourteen.
Dakota was in his room,
music blasting loud enough
to shake the walls a little,
LED lights glowing in the dark,
The window was cracked open to let the smoke out.
And Colten walked in
already laughing about something.
Dakota said he looked so young back then.
Still just a kid.
Still, he's an annoying little brother.
Colten asked to hit the pen,
and Dakota laughed and told him,
“Man, get outta here.”
But eventually he handed it over anyway.
And they just sat there together
passing it back and forth,
music blasting through the speaker,
laughing until they couldn’t breathe,
talking about random stuff
that probably felt important at the time
but doesn’t even matter now.
What matters is that they were together.
Just brothers.
No grief.
No funerals.
No hospitals.
No Army leave spent sitting at a death site.
Just two brothers
thinking they had years left.
Dakota said sometimes
That memory hurts more than anything else.
Because it was normal.
And normal is what got stolen from him.
Now every year when Dakota gets leave from the Army,
He comes home
and goes straight to the place Colten died.
Same road.
Same spot.
Like his body remembers it automatically.
And he just sits there.
Sometimes talking.
Sometimes crying.
Sometimes staring at the ground
like he’s trying to understand
How can somebody be there one second
and gone the next.
He tells Colten everything.
About Army training.
About life.
About all the things he wishes
He could’ve told him in person.
And every single time
His voice breaks.
Because grief doesn’t care
How strong you are.
Dakota keeps a picture of Colten
inside his Army helmet.
Right where he can see him.
One time after training,
Some guys saw the picture
When he took the helmet off.
One of them laughed and asked,
“Who’s that, your boyfriend?”
Dakota told us
He just stared at them for a second.
Then his face changed completely.
And with his voice breaking
He said,
“No, *********
That’s my little brother.
He got shot and died
and I couldn’t save him.”
And when Dakota told us that story,
Nobody spoke.
Because you could hear it in his voice—
that guilt he carries everywhere.
Like he still believes
being the older brother
meant he was supposed to stop bad things
from happening.
Even though he couldn’t have.
I think losing Colten
changed Dakota forever.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
In the way he looks at old pictures for too long.
In the way certain songs make him leave the room.
In the meantime, he still goes back to that spot every year.
In the way his voice shakes
every time he says “my little brother.”
And I think the saddest part is this—
Dakota still loves Colten
like he’s alive.
Because brothers don’t stop being brothers
just because one of them died. 🤍
May 8
May 8, 2026 at 7:35 PM UTC
Dakota doesn’t talk about Colten softly.
He talks about him
like someone still trying to hold onto a fire
after it had already burned out.
Like if he keeps telling the stories,
keeps saying his name enough,
His little brother won’t disappear completely.
Sometimes late at night
when we’re all sitting around quietly,
Dakota starts talking about the old days.
And you can see it in his face immediately—
that mix of love and heartbreak
That only older brothers understand.
He told us once about this random night
When Colten was around fourteen.
Dakota was in his room,
music blasting loud enough
to shake the walls a little,
LED lights glowing in the dark,
The window was cracked open to let the smoke out.
And Colten walked in
already laughing about something.
Dakota said he looked so young back then.
Still just a kid.
Still, he's an annoying little brother.
Colten asked to hit the pen,
and Dakota laughed and told him,
“Man, get outta here.”
But eventually he handed it over anyway.
And they just sat there together
passing it back and forth,
music blasting through the speaker,
laughing until they couldn’t breathe,
talking about random stuff
that probably felt important at the time
but doesn’t even matter now.
What matters is that they were together.
Just brothers.
No grief.
No funerals.
No hospitals.
No Army leave spent sitting at a death site.
Just two brothers
thinking they had years left.
Dakota said sometimes
That memory hurts more than anything else.
Because it was normal.
And normal is what got stolen from him.
Now every year when Dakota gets leave from the Army,
He comes home
and goes straight to the place Colten died.
Same road.
Same spot.
Like his body remembers it automatically.
And he just sits there.
Sometimes talking.
Sometimes crying.
Sometimes staring at the ground
like he’s trying to understand
How can somebody be there one second
and gone the next.
He tells Colten everything.
About Army training.
About life.
About all the things he wishes
He could’ve told him in person.
And every single time
His voice breaks.
Because grief doesn’t care
How strong you are.
Dakota keeps a picture of Colten
inside his Army helmet.
Right where he can see him.
One time after training,
Some guys saw the picture
When he took the helmet off.
One of them laughed and asked,
“Who’s that, your boyfriend?”
Dakota told us
He just stared at them for a second.
Then his face changed completely.
And with his voice breaking
He said,
“No, *********
That’s my little brother.
He got shot and died
and I couldn’t save him.”
And when Dakota told us that story,
Nobody spoke.
Because you could hear it in his voice—
that guilt he carries everywhere.
Like he still believes
being the older brother
meant he was supposed to stop bad things
from happening.
Even though he couldn’t have.
I think losing Colten
changed Dakota forever.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
In the way he looks at old pictures for too long.
In the way certain songs make him leave the room.
In the meantime, he still goes back to that spot every year.
In the way his voice shakes
every time he says “my little brother.”
And I think the saddest part is this—
Dakota still loves Colten
like he’s alive.
Because brothers don’t stop being brothers
just because one of them died. 🤍
About Colt's brother Dakota
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