Later, they drove until the stars came out. Chanel didn’t mention the other Polaroid in her bag—the one she’d taken last week, of Daisy asleep in the passenger seat, mouth open, mixtape title scrawled on the bottom in sharpie: sad, but make it vibey.
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. chanel camryn, daisy lavoy
Daisy scrolled dramatically, then tapped her phone. A lo-fi beat filled the car—soft piano, distant rain sounds. Chanel raised an eyebrow. Later, they drove until the stars came out
“You know,” Daisy said quietly, not looking at her, “I applied to the conservatory in Chicago.” The image had developed: Daisy, glowing like a
The photo slid out, blank and grey. Chanel waved it gently, waiting for the image to bloom.
Chanel Camryn had a rule: never let Daisy Lavoy pick the music on a road trip. But Daisy had shotgun, Daisy had the aux cord, and Daisy had that look—half smirk, half dare—that meant arguing was useless.