My roommates and I noticed a trend in our love lives during our sophomore year. One of us would begin seeing a new lady-friend and in only three short weeks the courtship would float away like a balloon from a child’s grasp. We thought it was a curse cast upon us for not recycling. But after four years of trial, error and multiple square-offs against the beast of romance, I have noticed it’s a recurring theme in many college-aged relationships.

The Three-Week Rule is as follows: Beginning the moment you first do anything romantic with someone, a doomsday clock is wound that will strike in three week’s time. This is when both parties will meet at a crossroads. One route leads to developing a more serious relationship, and the other allows you to separate without damaging too many feelings.

In three weeks, you get to know someone and psych yourself out because they’re really big fans of “How I Met Your Mother.” You know deep down that the show is bogus, so you end it and change walking lanes and adjust the direction of your eyes to appreciate our campus as an arboretum with over 3,000 trees every time you see him or her on campus. Or something like that.

There was the girl who worked the checkout line at Dux Bistro my freshman year whose smile persuaded me to blast Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al” in my dorm. Then there was the girl I met at a party whose “I think we should take things slow” speech sent me darting away like a Bambi of self-doubt. Both courtships lasted three weeks. Both crumbled like stale bread.

My most recent dance with the rule is what inspired me to write this piece. This time the nail in the love coffin wasn’t solely due to my own insecurities but was shared between the both of us. I spoke to a class about a documentary I helped create and this particular woman was in the audience. Intrigued, she contacted me via LinkedIn (top that one, Tinder) and we scheduled a coffee meet. Fate be it, that day was UO’s infamous snow day when magic drizzled down and this coffee-meet morphed into a nighttime makeout session. Winter break came and went, and I returned to further sexy times. But the fun did not last. I soon found myself lying in her bed with my head floating — not out of joy but rather a hollow realization that this was yet another end. She felt the same and so we split, because it’s easier.

My roommate insists that the Three-Week Rule is a curse. But after focusing on my rear-view mirror, I liken it to more of an excuse or a cop out. Nothing frightens me more than being completely vulnerable. If you let someone in, there’s no telling what’s to happen if they step back out. A mix of fear and comfort, the Three-Week Rule is a fail-safe button ready to be pushed, relieving you of any romantic responsibilities and leaving you all alone.