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.
Daisy took a step closer. “I’m not asking permission. I’m asking… will you still send me those stupid voice notes about the texture of paint? Even when I’m gone?” chanel camryn, daisy lavoy
They were driving north along the coast, no real destination. That was the thing about Chanel and Daisy: one always planned (Chanel, lists color-coded by urgency), and one always wandered (Daisy, whose life philosophy was we’ll know when we get there ). They had been best friends for six years—since a freshman-year roommate assignment threw a meticulous art history nerd and a chaos-fueled theater kid into a ten-by-twelve dorm room. Chanel grabbed her Polaroid from the backseat—a habit