The San Siro, a moment ago a cauldron of noise and hope, fell into a stunned, heart-wrenching silence. I stood in the middle of the pitch, my hands on my knees, my body and mind completely drained.
The comeback, the beautiful, exhilarating fight, had all come to an end with a single, devastating goal in the last seconds of the game.
But as I looked up, I saw my teammates. Their shoulders were slumped, but their heads were held high.
There was no finger-pointing, no frustration. Just a shared, quiet look of determination. We had lost, but we had not been broken.
Lautaro Martínez walked over to me, his face streaked with sweat and disappointment, but he gave me a firm pat on the back. "A hell of a fight, Leon," he said, his voice low.
"You came back and gave us everything. We'll get them in their home."
Julián Álvarez, his usual boundless energy subdued, just nodded in agreement. "Unbelievable game. We showed them we're not to be trifled with. We'll show them again."
