I knew it was coming.
It could have turned into a brutal fight right up to the finish – blood flowed, sweat shed, shoulders popped. We had no one person to truly root for; the two fighters had become fast favourites and unassuming underdogs, though burdened with hate and remorse, a baggage many times heavier than life itself.
For all intents and purposes, it could have ended ugly; we visibly cringed at the upper left hooks, collectively gasped at the near hits, and quietly despaired at the revelation that only one of the two can emerge the winner when the bell rings for the last time.
It was not just a physical and bodily combat to harm and to disarm, but a climatic battle of wills to forgive and forget, and to bury the hatchet.
By the time the song came on, I was already close to tears. So I am not sorry at all with my choice to again watch a movie because of the band; but I would regret it all the more had I missed it for the sliver of hope it could bring.
Embarrassingly, all this crying-in-movies business is starting to get to me. That is it, it would take more than a miracle to have me consider stepping into a cinema hall ever again.