Daisy scrolled dramatically, then tapped her phone. A lo-fi beat filled the car—soft piano, distant rain sounds. Chanel raised an eyebrow.
“You know,” Daisy said quietly, not looking at her, “I applied to the conservatory in Chicago.”
Chanel felt something crack in her chest. Chicago was eight hundred miles away. They had never been more than twenty minutes apart. chanel camryn, daisy lavoy
Chanel grabbed her Polaroid from the backseat—a habit she’d picked up from Daisy, who collected disposable cameras like other people collected stamps. She framed the shot: Daisy’s wild curls lit from behind, the sea stretching forever, the little mole above Daisy’s left eyebrow that Chanel had drawn a thousand times in her sketchbook.
Chanel looked down at the Polaroid. The image had developed: Daisy, glowing like a memory that hadn’t happened yet. She tucked it into the pocket of her jacket—the one over her heart. Daisy scrolled dramatically, then tapped her phone
Some pictures, Chanel realized, you don’t need to wave dry. They stay with you, no matter how far you drive.
Daisy laughed, the sound breaking halfway through. She pulled Chanel into a hug that smelled like vanilla and salt air. “You know,” Daisy said quietly, not looking at
“You’re not allowed to pick sad music,” Chanel said, her voice thick. “But yes. Always.”