Afterwards, not a single person went home. The Borussia Dortmund players stood in front of the Yellow Wall in silence, and the Borussia Dortmund fans acknowledged them in silence: a ritual that felt funereal, almost religious, in its wrought penitence. We, the players, beg forgiveness for taking a cheese grater to our faces for the last 90 minutes. We, the fans, forgive you for taking a cheese grater to your faces. And in your bloodied cheeks and gross bits of grated face we see, and honour, the measure of your sacrifice. A little more silence. The coach, Edin Terzic, was crying.

Meanwhile, about 60 miles down the A1, Bayern Munich were indulging in a more traditional title celebration. The customary, time-honoured kind. The Bayern kind. But this time, for Dortmund, there would be nobody else to blame. Not Pep Guardiola or Robert Lewandowski or Uli Hoeness. Not the big players who kept leaving for fresher pastures, nor the bigger clubs who lured them there, nor the financial inequities that enabled them.

Related: Bayern Munich snatch last-gasp glory before axe falls on club executives

This time, when the full-time whistle blew with Bayern top and Dortmund second once again, they knew their pain was entirely self-designed, self-conceived, self-manufactured. “You realise how tough this sport can be,” said Terzic. “We were only one goal short. It hurts so much.”

There were bitter tears and in the morning there will be bitter recriminations and in time there will be bitter memories. The souvenir championship T-shirts will sit unworn in a drawer. The parade can safely be cancelled. In its place an emptiness, a void, an unrequited longing. Eleven years without a title will become 12, and now how many more? These are the games that sear themselves on to the soul, that scar entire generations. They will forever remember this breezy early summer afternoon when Dortmund came, and saw, and did not conquer.

And they came so close. They needed a win, and almost got it. They needed Köln to get something against Bayern, and almost got that too. For eight golden minutes they had this thing in their hands, and that will sting. But equally, how does a team that has won its last 11 home games disintegrate? How is it possible for professional footballers to miss chances of this magnitude, to make so many bad decisions of this importance? How does a team simply forget who it is?

For all that came after, the title was really lost in those nine wild first-half minutes when Dortmund forgot they were top of the league and instead became the bearers of the world’s most precious diamond. They had arrived for a coronation, not a war, and were startled when Mainz – with nothing to play for – refused to lie down, and instead claimed two goals through free headers for Andreas Hanche-Olsen and Karim Onisiwo.

In between Sébastien Haller missed a penalty, and perhaps that was the moment when Dortmund switched into blind panic mode. Mainz had more chances. Julian Brandt inexplicably squandered a five-on-two attack. Bayern were already 1-0 up, and every Dortmund decision was now served up with lashings of terror, tight muscles and the screeching chagrin of 81,000 swearing all at once. Rule number one of hosting a party: don’t pop the champagne too early. It is deceptively hard to put the cork back in the bottle, and you will end up looking quite stupid trying.

The second half simply disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Haller missed from two yards. Club legend Marco Reus missed a header from six yards. Then so did Haller. Then so did the substitute Gio Reyna. There were low-percentage long shots, although frankly everything felt low-percentage at this point. Finally, with 20 minutes remaining, this dirty pint of rancid crosses, hopeful knockdowns and wild ricochets offered a fleeting moment of clarity when a loose ball ran to Raphaël Guerreiro, who slammed the ball in from 18 yards.

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Köln’s equalising goal rippled around the ground like a tsunami. Suddenly, this game that mattered so much seemed not to matter at all. And so when Bayern claimed their inevitable winner, Dortmund’s focus had fatally deserted them. With virtually the final kick, Niklas Süle slammed the ball in from close range. Too late.

So they all stood together, as silent as the abyss, both waving and drowning. They will know this may well have been their best chance: a historically weak Bayern, a shambolic Bayern in many ways, a Bayern who will doubtless regroup and strengthen in the summer. Dortmund may well lose Jude Bellingham, who was injured and did not play a minute here. So they stood in their pain, feeling it, sharing it, not hiding it. Not a single person went home. A benediction and a promise: we are here, and we are here together, because that’s what’s we do. And come August Dortmund will be back, because that’s what they do.