The Law of Us

The first time I noticed him, he was simply a shadow against the tall archways of the law block, carrying a bulky camera strap across one shoulder and a thick volume of Indian Penal Code under his arm. There was an effortless, quiet composure to the way he walked—sharp jawline, intense dark eyes, and a tall, structured frame that made him instantly stand out in a crowd of chaotic first-years.

“Look at him,” Spoorthi had whispered, nudging me during an afternoon lecture break. “Who is that senior?”

Samruddhi had leaned in, squinting. “That’s Prateek. Final year. Solitary guy, mostly stays in the camera pit or the library corner.”

I hadn’t said anything out loud, but every time he passed by our corridor, my eyes involuntarily traced his profile. Among our small inner circle, he quickly earned a secret moniker. Hrithik Roshan. It started as an inside joke—a playful code name whispered behind notebook covers whenever he walked past our tutorial room—but slowly, the habit stuck. Every subtle nod, every time he adjusted his camera lens near the auditorium, became a detail recorded in secret.

The barrier broke late one night on Instagram. What started as a cautious, formal direct message regarding event photos from Freshers Day turned into hours of typing under the blue light of my phone screen. We talked about law, about late-night study routines, about the quiet pressure of expectations. The formal distance vanished almost overnight. By the time he confessed his feelings on Insta DM eleven months into our friendship, stepping up as my steady anchor, the bond was already unbreakable.