Beside him sat Giulia. She was wearing a vintage leather jacket and drawing stars on her palm with a Sharpie. They were part of a generation labeled "wannabes"—too late for the moon landing, too early for Mars, stuck in the "in-between" of scrolling through other people's highlights while their own lives felt like a series of loading screens.
The neon sign of the "Hotel Riviera" flickered, casting a rhythmic pink glow over the dented hood of Pietro’s 2005 Fiat Punto. Inside, the air smelled of stale tobacco and cheap energy drinks. Pinguini Tattici Nucleari - Giovani Wannabe
As the chorus hit, Pietro started drumming on the steering wheel. He sang about Jimi Hendrix and the irony of being young in a world that feels old. For a few minutes, the existential dread of their twenties evaporated. They weren't just kids with low bank balances and uncertain futures; they were "young wannabes" in a glorious, messy search for a "North Star" that didn't require a GPS. Beside him sat Giulia
They didn't need to arrive. In the world of the song, the road was the destination, and as long as the playlist didn't end, they were exactly who they were supposed to be. The neon sign of the "Hotel Riviera" flickered,
They weren't heading to a sold-out stadium or a high-stakes meeting. They were heading to a 24-hour diner three towns over just because the coffee tasted like adventure if you drank it at 3:00 AM.
Pietro shifted into fourth gear. "We’re 'wannabes,' Giulia. That’s the point. We want to be everything. The hunger is better than the meal anyway."