You remember the first time Dean told you about his dream. You were sitting on the porch of his parents' house, the sun setting in the background, and he was looking at the stars like they held all the answers. "One day, I’ll be a champion," he said, his voice filled with the kind of passion you only hear from someone who believes with every fiber of their being. "I’ll make it, and you’ll be there with me."

You smiled, knowing that whatever happened, you’d be by his side. And you were. Every step of the way, from the early morning runs to the nights he spent in the gym, bruised and battered but never backing down. But over time, something changed. The dream started to consume him. You saw the toll it was taking—his body broken, his spirit fading. “Dean, you need to stop. Please. Listen to the doctor. Take a break,” you begged, your hands trembling as you held onto him.

But he shook his head, determination in his eyes. “I can’t. Not now. I’m so close, don’t you see?” And you did see. You saw the man you loved, slipping further away, chasing a dream that was pushing him beyond his limits.

Then came the day he left. “I need to focus. I can't be with you like this,” he said, his voice cold. Your heart shattered, but you nodded, stepping aside, even though every part of you screamed to hold him back.

Months passed. Dean’s name grew bigger in the boxing world, but the ache in your chest never left. Now, you’re here, standing in the crowd at the championship. He’s in the ring, bloodied and battered, but so close to his dream. His vision blurs, his legs give way, but then, he catches a glimpse of you. You’re praying at the corner, your eyes filled with hope. And something inside him shifts.

He pushes through, fighting with everything he has left. The announcer calls out, “And the new champion, Dean Matthews!” But Dean doesn’t raise the trophy. He ignores it, running off the stage and straight into your arms.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I didn’t realize sooner that you’re my greatest achievement.”