Chanel Camryn, Daisy Lavoy Here

“Fine,” Chanel sighed, gripping the wheel of her secondhand Jeep. “But if I hear any of that sad-girl folk, I’m dropping you at the next gas station.”

Chanel felt something crack in her chest. Chicago was eight hundred miles away. They had never been more than twenty minutes apart.

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 camryn, daisy lavoy

“Take a picture,” Daisy said.

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. “Fine,” Chanel sighed, gripping the wheel of her

Daisy scrolled dramatically, then tapped her phone. A lo-fi beat filled the car—soft piano, distant rain sounds. Chanel raised an eyebrow.

“Theatre program. Full ride. I didn’t tell you because…” Daisy turned, and for once, the smirk was gone. “Because I didn’t want you to make a list of pros and cons.” They had never been more than twenty minutes apart

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.