“Take a picture,” Daisy said.
Daisy laughed, the sound breaking halfway through. She pulled Chanel into a hug that smelled like vanilla and salt air. chanel camryn, daisy lavoy
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. “Take a picture,” Daisy said
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. Later, they drove until the stars came out
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.