Around 2012 Malcolm had become friends with a group I managed, [LA hip-hop collective] Odd Future, so we were around each other in various settings. Before that, I had misunderstood him, but it only took about 15 minutes in a studio to realise how unbelievably talented he was. He could play everything, was obsessed with obscure recording gear and production, and had a wide, passionate net for everything from Big L to John Lennon. But what was even more impressive was the way he treated people so selflessly – it made everyone around him feel comfortable.

My wife and partner, Kelly, and I started working with Mac in 2013. Managing Mac was about building a safety net around him – to allow him to be who he wanted to be, to make music that represented who he was without the fear of expectations or need for instant gratification. He had money and success but he craved importance: the ability to show depth, to cement a legacy.

It was as much a friendship as a working relationship; it was impossible not to fall in love with the human being he was. All conversations started with a smile – I probably miss that the most. One of my favourite things about Mac was the way he treated our daughter, Chloe. Unprompted, he would call just to see how she was doing. When she starred in her first play, he bought three bouquets of flowers that were the biggest, most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen in my life and she was wildly embarrassed, but that was just who he was.A lot of pressure comes with being in the public eye, but Mac had an incredible support system. His close friends were there from the beginning and they had an unbreakable bond. It was always about others first.

He helped countless artists to get exposure, whether it was taking Kendrick Lamar, Chance the Rapper or The Internet on some of their first tours [as his support acts], or helping Vince Staples, Sza and Earl Sweatshirt with studio time, rides, production or just a conversation. He was available, always. He understood the benefit of lifting others up.

Malcolm was wildly driven and prolific – he had so much to say. The studio was his safe place and it’s where his talent grew, to the point where he was able to make Swimming, a timeless, intimate album he was incredibly proud of.

I last saw him two days before he died. He was very open about his struggles throughout his career, but he had been fully focused and engaged. He knew the progress he had made, battling his internal dialogue – it wasn’t easy, but he was doing it and feeling the rewards. A few days before, he was sending Kelly and me workout videos of himself alongside Rocky-themed music. He was happy and in as good a mental state as he had been since we’d known him.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Mac Miller performing at Camp Flog Gnaw Carnival, Los Angeles, in 2017. Photograph: Rich Fury/Getty Images

That’s why all of this is so surreal – it was like a punch in the gut. There was so much in front of him that he was excited about. He was about to go on tour with Thundercat and J.I.D with a superstar band. He knew he was at his best and most comfortable with a band and couldn’t wait to show his fans who he now was and the direction he was fully leaning into.

After one of the last shows he played, he came backstage and said, “For all the slow, quiet songs, people just sat there and listened – that’s all I ever wanted.” He was incredible live and he could make the crowd go wild, but there was something inside him that just wanted people to listen – to experience and appreciate the music, and that’s what happened in that moment. You could see this glow about him. It was like, “Man, I’m getting there, I’m actually becoming the artist I want to be.”

He’ll be remembered for his ability to redefine himself as a musician: look at the difference between Blue Slide Park and Swimming. But, as importantly, he’ll be remembered through those musicians he helped along the way. He was a spark to so many people. In a world dominated by ego, he led with the soul and lived by focusing on similarities rather than differences – that’s a lesson we all could use.

I truly miss you, Malcolm.