There is a certain, disturbing silence that follows the closing of a door; silence pregnant with noise, the noise of the laughter, the words of whispered secrets, and the palpable weight of allegations and accusations left unsaid. We have all stood in that silence, on one side of the door or the other. But what happens years after the door is closed is determined by the final words spoken, the last glance shared. A peaceful, understanding end paves the way for future rekindling but when a relationship is terminated on a bitter note it guarantees a lifetime of resentment, and therefore never end a relationship on a withering note, for it may never blossom again.
To end a relationship with bitterness, with the jagged edges of anger and the cold steel of resentment, is to salt the earth of the garden you once tended with devoted hands. We often believe, in the fiery throes of a breakup, that the final, cutting remark, the dramatic, door-slamming exit, is a show of strength, of claiming of the last word. But the last word is often the one that haunts the longest.
Think of a plant left to wither. Its leaves curl inward, turning a sickly yellow, then a brittle brown. The life recedes, leaving behind a dry, skeletal husk. A relationship ended on a withering note undergoes a similar transformation. The vibrant, living entity it once was—a tapestry woven with shared jokes, intimate moments, and future dreams, curls in on itself, becoming a nemesis of its own demise. The good memories, once a source of warmth, become tainted, viewed through the murky lens of the bitter end. The laughter now echoes hollow, the promises lies. A withering end doesn’t just sever present connection, it corrupts the future, leaving nothing behind for resurrection.
The human heart, for all its resilience, is also unique in its own way, always remembering, recollecting, re-enacting. It holds onto the sting of a cruel word far longer than it savours a hundred kind ones. A withering end ensures that the narrative of the relationship is forever framed by its painful conclusion. It becomes a ghost story, a cautionary tale you tell yourself in the lonely hours of the night.
But what of blossoming again? This is not necessarily about a romantic reunion, a return to the way things were. That is a rare and often complicated bloom. The blossoming we forsake with a withering end is of a different, more varied, and perhaps more sacred, poetic in nature. It is the potential for a future friendship, born from the ashes of a friendship, romance or just being around, and nurtured by mutual respect. It is the possibility of a chance encounter years down the line, where a warm smile and a genuine “how have you been?” can be exchanged without a knot of dread forming in your stomach. It is the quiet, internal peace that comes from knowing you handled the end with a grace that honoured the love, camaraderie, unnamed relationship you once shared.
Ending a relationship on a withering note is akin to writing a beautiful, epic novel, only to tear out the final, crucial chapter or set the entire manuscript ablaze. The story is either left incomplete, the characters unresolved, their relationships forever defined by the violence of the fire or completely lost in a moment of madness. There is no possibility of a sequel, no chance for a spin-off, not even the quiet dignity of being placed on a shelf to be remembered with a fond, bittersweet sigh.
Literature, in its timeless reflection of the human heart, is replete with the scorched earth left behind by relationships that have ended in vitriol and bitterness. The very language of withering and blossoming is woven into the fabric of our most enduring stories. Think of the blighted landscapes of our own despair, the “winter of our discontent.” A relationship that concludes on a “withering note” is one that doesn’t just end; it sours the very ground it once occupied. It is a deliberate salting of the earth, a scorched-earth policy enacted on the shared territory of memory and affection. This act of withering, of leaving things to decay in acrimony, ensures that no future growth, no second spring, no second chance is possible.
Some of contemporary fiction too highlights this though in its own distinct way. In N. Lalit’s novel, Play Pause, Shayan and Jessica whose fated connection evolves into a deep love but takes a sharp turn when Jessica’s behaviour becomes inexplicably strange, introduces a twist with a potential for a discordant end. This is where the wisdom of a gentle conclusion comes into play. Shayan reacts with great restraint, understanding. He doesn’t slam the door on their shared past. Instead he looks forward to reconciliation playing his cards accordingly. The “pause” in their relationship, as the title suggests, offers a space for reflection, a chance to approach the inevitable end with a sense of empathy rather than animosity. A withering end would have turned this pause into a definitive stop, the music silenced mid-bar.
N.Lalit’s short story collection, Life, Love, Loss & Latte, further illuminates this theme. The very title suggests a journey through the spectrum of human connection, acknowledging that loss is an intrinsic experience of every human being. Within these tales, one can imagine characters grappling with the end of love. A story might trace the lives of two individuals who part with a quiet understanding, a mutual acknowledgment that their paths have diverged. They may not remain friends or a couple but the absence of a bitter end leaves the door ajar, not for a romantic reunion, but for a future where they can look back on their time together with a sense of peace, a gentle nostalgia.
Consider the desolate moors of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. The tempestuous love between Catherine and Heathcliff ends not with a gentle fading, but with a series of cruel, unforgivable pronouncements that echo through generations. Theirs is the ultimate cautionary tale of a love that withers on the vine of pride and social expectation. The poison of their parting infects not only their own lives but the lives of all who follow. No new blossom can emerge from such a blighted landscape; there is only the perpetuation of pain, a haunting that lasts long after the protagonists have turned to dust. The withering note of their end becomes a curse, a chilling testament to the enduring power of a bitter conclusion.
So, when you find yourself at this poetic ‘door’, pause, take a breather. You can salt the earth with anger and regret, ensuring only the hardiest weeds of resentment will ever grow there again. Or, you can leave it with a measure of peace, with the quiet dignity of a completed story. You can leave the soil fallow, perhaps, but not poisoned. You can leave it with the tender, hopeful possibility that one day, in a different season and under a different sun, something beautiful and unexpected might just blossom there again.
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