Not Like You

Not Like You
Amanda's POV

At Mike's House

The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was the silence. The side of the bed where Mike usually slept was empty, the sheet still cold like he hadn’t even tried to come back after leaving.

For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the faint light slipping through the curtains. My head was pounding, but not from lack of sleep rather just from the weight of thinking too much. I told myself to stop overanalyzing. Not every silence meant war. Not every distance meant rejection.

But I knew better.

I sat up slowly, running my hand over the empty space beside me, like maybe if I touched it long enough, I’d feel some leftover warmth from him. Nothing. Just cold sheets and colder thoughts.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, the house already smelled faintly of his cologne and that sharp, dry scent of coffee. He’d been up for a while. I found him in the living room, sitting at the edge of the sofa, phone in hand, his eyes fixed on the laptop screen. Numbers filled the screen. They were company statistics, spreadsheets, his precious business world.

He didn’t even look up.

Typical Mike. Pride first, emotion later.

I stood by the doorway for a few seconds, watching him. His jaw was tense, his fingers tapping against the table like he was counting seconds in his head. The light from the window hit the side of his face, highlighting that hard line of his cheekbone I used to trace with my fingers. Now it looked like stone.

I forced a smile. “You’re up early.”

No answer. Just that quiet hum he makes when he’s pretending to be too focused to talk.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Fine. If that’s how we want to play it, then I’ll play too. But not the angry, desperate type. Not this time.

“Coffee?” I asked softly.

“Already had,” he said without looking away from the screen.

I nodded like it didn’t sting. Like it didn’t feel like rejection served in one sentence.

Inside, something wilted, but I didn’t let it show. I told myself again that I wouldn’t let silence rule this house. I wasn’t built for quiet wars. I needed warmth, attention, and touch. And if I had to pretend for a little while to bring that back, then I would.

He wasn’t going to be the only one with pride.

As I walked past him toward the kitchen, I muttered under my breath, “I’m done letting silence win.”

But of course, he didn’t hear it.

The kitchen light flickered on, and I stared at the clean counters. For a few seconds, I just stood there, hands resting on the marble, thinking.

If that woman at the hospital really was who I thought she was… if it was Diane, then I’d have to play smarter. That woman was poison wrapped in pity. She didn’t even have to open her mouth to steal attention. She just existed, and men started remembering things they shouldn’t.

I shook my head. No. Not this time.

If Diane had somehow found her way close to us again, I would find her first. I would make sure Mike never even had the chance to look at her again. I didn’t care how much she’d “healed” or what new soft glow she carried. She wasn’t taking what’s mine.

I opened the fridge and started pulling things out… eggs, butter, bread, tomatoes, peppers. The clatter of plates and spoons filled the air. It felt good, normal. I needed that, normalcy. Maybe breakfast could fix what silence broke.

I cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking harder than necessary. The sound filled the kitchen, along with the faint hiss of oil heating up in the pan. The smell of frying onions soon followed.

Ten minutes later, the kitchen looked like a battlefield with plates everywhere, bits of vegetables on the counter, and egg shells near the sink. I didn’t care. For once, I was doing something to bring us back.

I was still chopping when I heard his footsteps behind me. Slow. Hesitant.

“Morning again,” I said lightly without turning around.

“Yeah,” he answered, voice flat. Then I heard the fridge open, the clink of a glass, water pouring.

The silence stretched.

Then his voice came again.

“What’s happening here?”

I turned slightly, frowning. “What do you mean?”

He gestured vaguely around the kitchen. “This. All this mess.”

I blinked. “I’m cooking.”

He took a sip of water and stared. “Cooking, right. You don’t have to turn the whole kitchen upside down to make breakfast.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, still looking around. “Diane never did this. She cleaned as she cooked. You wouldn’t even know she was in the kitchen.”

That name.

That name hit me straight in the chest like a slap I didn’t see coming.

I stared at him, the sound of the oil sizzling behind me. “What did you just say?”

He finally looked at me, eyes calm but narrowed. “I said Diane…”

“I heard what you said.” My voice came out tight. “I just didn’t expect you to be dumb enough to say it.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to start anything, Amanda. I’m just saying, maybe be a little more organized…”

“Organized?” I repeated, my laugh… small. “You’re standing here comparing me to your ex-wife and calling it advice?”

He put the glass on the counter. “I’m not comparing. I’m just…”

“Just what, Mike?” I stepped closer, eyes burning into his. “Reminiscing? You miss the way she fried your eggs? You miss her clean counters?”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“Oh, I’m not twisting anything. I’m just trying to understand why my fiancé suddenly thinks it’s okay to bring up his ex in my kitchen.”

He exhaled loudly, patience thinning. “You’re overreacting.”

I smiled tightly. “No, I’m reacting exactly how any woman would when her man starts reminiscing about his ex-wife who happens to be her stepsister, by the way.”

His eyes flickered. “So you think that woman we saw yesterday…”

“I don’t think, Mike. I know.” I cut him off. “You saw her. And don’t you dare stand there pretending it didn’t shake you.”

He stayed silent, which only confirmed it.

My heart was pounding now, but I refused to look weak. “You want to talk about Diane? Fine. Let’s talk about her. If you want her so bad, why did you divorce her? Why did you choose me?!”

He looked at me then, really looked, and for a second, I saw guilt flash across his face but it disappeared just as fast.

He said quietly, “Maybe because I didn’t know you’d turn everything into a fight.”

The words punched through me.

I swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “You think you can hurt me with that? You can’t. You can’t leave me, Mike. You can’t leave your unborn child. You can’t bring me this far and just drop me in the middle of the road. No. We’re going to be together, whether you like it or not.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not how relationships work, Amanda.”

“It is now.”

He stared at me for a long time, silent, unreadable. Then he grabbed his glass, emptied it in one gulp, and set it down with a soft click.

“I need some air,” he said finally, voice low.

And before I could reply, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

The sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway. The front door opened, then closed.

I stood there, breathing hard, surrounded by the smell of burnt eggs and too much oil. The quiet was deafening again.

My eyes fell on the counter… the half-chopped vegetables, the broken shells, the spilled salt. I reached for the counter to steady myself. My fingers trembled.

Then I whispered, almost to myself, “You’ll come back to me, Mike. You always do.”

And this time, I wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a threat.