Onion's Tears

by Renz Chester R. Gumaru

The kitchen smelled like onions. Alice stood at the counter, slicing through their thin layers, her hands trembling. Tears rolled down her face, but she was not sure if it was the onions or the ache inside her chest. Maybe both.

Today was their last anniversary.

She stared at the simmering pot on the stove, the same soup she had made every year. It had always been his

favorite. She did not know why she bothered this time. Maybe she wanted to hold on to one last memory.

The front door opened. She froze, gripping the knife tighter. She did not turn, but she knew it was him.

“Alice,” Peter said softly. His voice carried a weight that made her chest tighten.

“You are early,” she said, her voice low and unsteady.

“Honestly, I was hesitant if I should come at all,” he replied.

She finally turned to face him. His eyes looked tired, but familiar, the kind of look that always broke through her defenses. She noticed the envelope in his hand, and her heart sank. She had known this moment was coming, but seeing it still felt like a knife slicing through her.

Peter set the envelope down on the counter. “The papers,” he said quietly.

She nodded and looked away, blinking back tears. “Please stay,” she whispered, “For dinner.”

For a moment, he hesitated. Then, with a small nod, he stepped forward. “Let me help,” he said.

Alice handed him the cutting board and a knife. She reached for another onion, and they stood side by side, cutting in silence.

Tears soon streamed down both their faces.

“It is the onion,” she said, forcing a laugh.

Peter set down his knife and wiped his eyes, shaking his head. “It is not just the onions,” he said softly.

She paused, her breath catching in her throat. She could not look at him, could not let him see the pain she knew was written all over her face.

They finished chopping, and Peter leaned over to stir the pot. “I still remember the first time you made this for me,” he said. “We could not stop laughing because I cried so much from cutting the onions.”

Alice smiled faintly, her lips trembling. “You teased me for making you cry on our first anniversary,” she said, her voice breaking.

He chuckled, though it sounded more like a sigh. “You said it meant we were meant to last because even onions could not keep us apart.”

Her hands stilled. The weight of his words hung in the air, the cruel irony of it cutting deeper

than any knife.

They sat down at the table, bowls of steaming soup between them. The first few bites passed in silence, but the quiet was too loud, too suffocating.

“Do you think,” Alice finally asked, her voice trembling, “We could have fixed it?”

Peter looked at her, his eyes glassy. “I wanted to,” he said. “But love is not enough when we keep hurting each other.”

Her tears fell harder now, splashing into her untouched soup. “I do not know how to stop loving you,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice breaking. He reached across the table, his hand warm and familiar as it covered hers. “I will love you forever, Alice. But we both know this is tearing us apart.”

She nodded, her heart shattering into pieces she could not pick up. They sat there momentarily, hands intertwined, as if holding on just a little longer might stop the inevitable.

“It is the onion,” she said suddenly, trying to laugh through her tears. “Always making me cry.”

Peter smiled sadly. “Maybe it is not the onion this time.”

When he stood to leave, Alice followed him to the door. The envelope was tucked under his arm, the finality was almost too much to bear.

At the door, he turned back, his eyes meeting hers. “Please,” he said, his voice trembling, “Let me say this one last time: I love you.”

Tears streamed down her face as she answered, “Happy last anniversary.”