There are relationships that enter our lives like sunlight through an open window—sudden, warming, and filled with promise. In their early hours, everything glows. Words feel lyrical, silences feel safe, and even pain, when it appears, is excused as a passing cloud. We tell ourselves that love, because it is beautiful, must also be right. And so we keep the window open, even when the breeze grows cold, even when the light begins to sting the eyes.
But wisdom whispers a harder truth: not every beautiful relationship is meant to be lived in forever.
In human bonds, beauty often arrives disguised as familiarity. We cling to shared laughter, old memories, and the comfort of knowing another soul’s rhythms. These become the view we cannot abandon. Yet day by day, something within us begins to ache. Words are weighed and measured. Affection turns conditional. Presence feels lonelier than absence. Still, we hesitate. How can something that once felt so right now hurt so deeply? How can we close a window that once taught us how to breathe?
Sarojini Naidu wrote of love with both reverence and realism, aware that the heart’s deepest songs often carry undertones of sorrow. In that spirit, we must admit: love that wounds repeatedly is no longer a sanctuary; it is a storm admired from within. To remain in such a space is not devotion—it is self-erasure.
Relationships do not always break with cruelty. Some fracture quietly. There are no raised voices, no dramatic betrayals—only a slow diminishing. One listens more than one is heard. One gives more than one receives. One waits endlessly for warmth that arrives only in memories. The view remains exquisite: shared history, emotional intimacy, the hope of change. But the window, unseen by others, cuts the skin each time it is touched.
We often endure such pain because we fear the emptiness that follows closure. We believe leaving will undo all that was meaningful. We mistake endurance for loyalty and suffering for proof of love. Yet love was never meant to demand the sacrifice of dignity. When a relationship asks you to shrink, to doubt your worth, to silence your needs, it ceases to be love and becomes a habit of hurt.
Closing the window does not mean denying what was beautiful. It means acknowledging that beauty, when paired with harm, cannot be a home. The heart, like a fragile lamp, cannot be kept burning in relentless wind. To protect it is not selfishness; it is survival.
The act of closure is quiet and sacred. It may not come with dramatic goodbyes or perfect understanding. Often it arrives as a weary clarity: I have tried enough. There is grief in this moment—a mourning not only for the person, but for the future you imagined together. Let that grief come. Let it wash through you like monsoon rain. It cleans what endurance has hardened.
And then, something remarkable happens. In the stillness after the window is closed, the heart begins to heal. The room grows calm. Breath deepens. You rediscover parts of yourself that had been neglected in the noise of pleasing, adjusting, forgiving endlessly. Peace, though less dazzling than passion, proves infinitely kinder.
Human relationships are meant to shelter us, not scar us. If a bond repeatedly leaves you broken, uncertain, or diminished, choose yourself without guilt. Bless the love for what it taught you. Release it for what it could not be.
Close the window that hurts you—however beautiful the view. Beyond it waits a gentler light, one that does not wound, but quietly teaches you how to be whole again
