Chanel Camryn, Daisy Lavoy Better May 2026

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.

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

“Take a picture,” Daisy said.

“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.”

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

Click. Whirr.

The photo slid out, blank and grey. Chanel waved it gently, waiting for the image to bloom. They were driving north along the coast, no real destination

“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.”