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“Take a picture,” Daisy said.

Some pictures, Chanel realized, you don’t need to wave dry. They stay with you, no matter how far you drive. chanel camryn, daisy lavoy

Chanel’s hand stopped mid-wave. “What?” “Take a picture,” Daisy said

Click. Whirr.

Daisy laughed, the sound breaking halfway through. She pulled Chanel into a hug that smelled like vanilla and salt air. “Take a picture

“You’re not allowed to pick sad music,” Chanel said, her voice thick. “But yes. Always.”

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.