They banned me like I was a problem they could solve by erasing me.

Not a conversation. Not a fight. Not even the courtesy of saying it to my face in a way that acknowledged I was human. Just a neat little decision made in a group chat I was removed from, wrapped in words like “vibe” and “drama-free,” as if cutting me out was self-care.

And now I’m sitting in a rental car, parked along the edge of a neighbor’s gravel turnaround, watching my mother lead the pack up the driveway of the beach house she thinks is a lucky rental.

She enters the code I set myself.

They carry in coolers and sunscreen and their own loud certainty. They talk over one another, already claiming bedrooms and balcony space, and they do it with the casual entitlement of people who have never once had to ask themselves if they deserve something.

They do not know the deed is held by my LLC.

They do not know I paid for every plank of siding and every inch of the hand-scraped floors beneath their shoes.

They do not know I’m going to let them settle in for twenty minutes before I remind them who really holds the keys.

My name is Skyla Morales, and for the first time in my life, I am using their blind spot as a weapon.

Right now I am invisible.

The rental is a silver sedan with tinted windows. It still smells like factory-clean plastic and stale air freshener, that artificial citrus scent rental companies love because it convinces people they’ve sanitized something. My hands rest lightly on the steering wheel even though the engine is off, like my body doesn’t know how to unclench. The air conditioner died five minutes ago, and the Georgia heat is already starting to press against the glass like a heavy, wet blanket.

It’s ninety degrees in Seabrook Cove today. The humidity turns air into something thick and close, something that clings to skin and refuses to let go. Sweat beads at my hairline, then slides down behind my ear. The back of my neck feels damp. My shirt sticks to my spine.

I don’t mind the heat.

The heat keeps me awake.

The heat keeps me real.

It reminds me that I am here in this moment, breathing, watching, present, even if the people currently invading my property decided weeks ago that I should not exist.

Through the windshield, I watch the caravan arrive.

It’s a spectacle of entitlement in motion. Three large SUVs pull into the crushed-shell driveway of the pristine three-story beach house that sits against the Atlantic Ocean like a promise. The house stands tall, painted a soft dusty blue that mimics twilight, trimmed in white that gleams under the midday sun. The windows catch the light and throw it back in sharp flashes. Wide decks wrap around the structure. Dune grass sways behind it, soft and pale, and beyond that the ocean stretches out in endless layers of blue-gray.

The house looks expensive.

It looks exclusive.