What I see this as (and you'll have to forgive me for what is, at the very least a little bit, Boss Baby-ing) is Calvino with a less grandiose stage for the metaphysics. Khan and Polo recognise themselves as extensions and representations of ideas, and their conversations knowingly hold the weight of all places and lives within them. These girls only see themselves, but that isn't all they are. Their pasts, presents, goals, and wants all collapse with gravitational force, entire prospective lives and persons thrown behind the weight of a single blocked jab. A musty gym sparkling with effervescent dust particles lit by the dimming light of day, weakly dribbling through a sunroof, four walls occupied by every thought ever to be had, a symphony of skin and sweat. So many stories and forces drive these young women to trade their bodies for a glimpse at imagined futures that you watch dissolve and reform in real time. She wins not because she has the most dramatically satisfying story, the most motivation, the most consequential life, the most tragedy, the most nerve, the most artistry, or the most definitional experience with boxing. She wins because she punches smarter and better than everyone else.