Cover image via @jasonsengchye (Instagram)
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Last Friday, around lunchtime, my boss dropped a message in our team group chat, letting us know that Jason, a former colleague, had passed away that morning
That message — like a pebble tossed into a still pond — sent ripples through me that have yet to settle.
Even now, as I write this, I can feel my chest tightening. I'm trying to stay composed, but it's not easy.
Others have gone to his wake and offered their goodbyes.
Me?
I've just been stuck on his Instagram profile, quietly visiting and refreshing it like it might somehow undo the news. Like, this is all some kind of cruel prank.
But no amount of delusion can protect us from the weight of what's real.
Although Jason left SAYS in 2022, he remained a part of our work lives long after. For many, he was a friend first, colleague second.
We weren't in the same team, and we didn't have much reason to hang out. He was in the team overseeing growth. I'm from the news desk.
But life — or nicotine — had other plans.
When he joined SAYS, I was still working remotely from Delhi, India. When I moved to Kuala Lumpur in 2019, we bonded over his fascination with my seven-year remote stint at this portal, and our mutual disdain for the performative nonsense we often saw in our circles.
After the movement control orders and return-to-office mandate, we ended up spending hours together on the office balcony, sharing smokes, silences, and a kind of unfiltered honesty that's rare in this world, especially at work.
We were each other's punchlines — Jason was Chinese, I'm Indian from India — and somehow, we were also each other's soft landings
In an age of political correctness, our friendship was unapologetically real. We threw jokes at each other that would've gotten us hauled to HR if anyone else had overheard. But there was no malice between us, only trust.
When I was dealing with toxicity at work — being pulled into petty drama or burdened with baseless accusations — Jason listened. He had this way of making you feel like your version of the story mattered — because to him, it did.
He was never bothered by my loudness or how unabashed I could be when talking about topics usually tiptoed around in office settings. I could vent to him and feel safe, knowing he was always the calm one who empathised.
Similarly, I was there for him when he needed quiet company.
When Jason left the company, he posted a goodbye on Instagram
A carousel of photos, memories, snapshots of a chapter closing.
One of the pictures was of us — it's a goofy, full-hearted moment frozen in time. The kind that needs no explanation to anyone who knew us.
Jason's in front, fake-screaming, while I've got him in a bear hug from behind, grinning like a maniac. We're both dressed in black, but the mood couldn't be lighter.
It's stupid and loud and us.
Even now, looking at it, I can still hear the laughter that came before and after it was taken.
I remember commenting on that post: "This is NOT a goodbye!!!"
I meant it.
At the time, I really believed we'd keep in touch, hang out, complain about life over cigarettes, and make stupid jokes about races. But we couldn't, not as much as I would have liked. Life did that thing it always does: it got in the way.
And now, here I am, trying to write this, still not quite able to accept that… you're really gone, Jason.
Since his passing, dozens of colleagues have shared their grief, their condolences, their memories.
I haven't said much.
Maybe I don't know how to. I just keep thinking about that comment I left under his post — "This is NOT a goodbye!!!"
But maybe it is.
Maybe this is my way of finally saying it.
Goodbye, Jason.
Thank you for the laughter, the rage-fueled rants, the inappropriate jokes, and the quiet solidarity. You were one of the few good ones.
And I'll miss you for a long, long time, dear friend.
