I never imagined the message I sent him two nights ago would go unread.

I called. No answer. I thought it was just one of those days. You know, the kind we often had. Where we don’t speak for weeks, even months, but always know we’re there. Always.

But when the phone rang the next morning—and it wasn’t him—I knew something was wrong.

“Salman’s been rushed to the hospital,” the voice said. “It’s serious.”

I froze.

It didn’t make sense. Not him. Not Salman. The man who danced with bruised ribs. Who gave away his own jacket in the cold without blinking. The one who walked into a room and made everyone believe nothing could ever break him.

And yet, here we are. He lies unconscious. Machines hum beside him. Tubes run from his body like lifelines, fragile and terrifying. The doctors say it’s a brain aneurysm. And AV malformation. I don’t know what those terms mean medically, but I understand what they mean emotionally.

They mean… we might lose him.

And I don’t think I’m ready.

The last time we were in the same room, we didn’t talk much. We exchanged one of those nods. The kind only people who have walked a lifetime together can understand. Our history is complicated—so much fire, so much distance, so many reunions without words.

But there’s always been love. Silent. Stubborn. Unshakable.

Now, standing outside that hospital room, with a pane of glass between us, I remember things I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years.

I remember the boy with mischief in his eyes and rebellion in his blood, pulling me onto a bike and saying, “Come on, Bhai. No plan is the best plan.” I remember drunken nights with loud music and louder laughter. I remember fighting on sets, not about scenes, but about who should pay the lunch bill.

And I remember the silence.

The silence that crept in after the fights. The ones that didn’t end with laughter. The times we let pride walk before love. The years we let the industry write stories for us while we avoided each other at award nights, pretending the hurt wasn’t there.

But through it all, I never stopped watching him.

He changed. Grew. Softened in places the world didn’t see. There’s a version of Salman only a few of us know—the one who texts at 3am asking if your mom’s okay, the one who donates without publicity, who forgives even when he shouldn’t, who carries the world’s judgment and still smiles.

Now that smile is gone.

Now he lies still.

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic beep of a monitor. I stand there, looking at him through glass, feeling something crack—not just in him, but in me.

I whispered something then. No cameras. No audience. Just me and him and the air between life and whatever lies beyond.

“Come back,” I said.

I don’t know if he heard me. But I needed him to.

Because this world… this industry… our world… doesn’t make sense without Salman Khan.

It’s strange how time plays its tricks. We chase fame, applause, cameras. And then, in a single hospital corridor, all of that vanishes. And what remains are memories. Fragments. Words unsaid.

I want to tell him I never stopped admiring him. That I know he’s more than the headlines. That I never truly believed any story that tried to erase his goodness.

I want to tell him that I still remember how he stood beside me at my lowest, even when we weren’t talking.

I want to tell him I still laugh when I think about that ridiculous dance we once made up on a shoot, the one we swore we’d never perform in public—and then did, at an awards show, because the crowd was begging.

I want to tell him that he can’t leave like this. Not with the fight unfinished. Not when there are still scenes we haven’t filmed together. Not when his story still has chapters left.

And yet, I’m scared.

Scared of the silence. Scared of the waiting. Scared of what happens if the next update isn’t good.

But even in this fear, I believe in him.

If anyone can fight this, it’s Salman. Not just because he’s strong, but because he’s stubborn. Because he knows how many people are praying. Because somewhere, deep down, he knows I’m here. Waiting.

Wishing we’d said more. Done more. Argued less.

And so I wait.

Outside the room. Inside my memories. Holding onto every moment the world didn’t see.

Because this isn’t about two superstars.

This is about two boys who once ruled rooftops in Bandra, who danced like fools in each other’s living rooms, who shared fame, fights, and forgiveness.

And one of those boys is lying in a hospital bed.

Fighting.

And the other is standing still, whispering,

“Come back, Salman. We still have time.”