The days passed quickly. It felt like just yesterday we launched our first motorcade in San Bartolome—yet here we were, already on the fifth day of the campaign. Today, we were headed to Barangay Parulung and Barangay Pando—two quiet-looking communities from the outside, yet full of hidden strength and warmth inside.
By 3 PM, we were already on the move. House to house. Home to home. A wave on the right, a cheerful "kumusta?" on the left.
Team Anjo brought with them smiles, patience, and always an open hand for every person who reached out for a handshake.
And as expected, in both Parulung and Pando, we were greeted by long-missed smiles—not the forced kind, but the kind laced with memories. It was like every person who saw Mayor Andy and Team Anjo had a story to tell, a reason to be thankful, a feeling buried deep inside that suddenly surfaced the moment he arrived.
At one house, a woman shouted:
"Mayor! Do you remember me? I'm the one whose child you helped at the hospital!"
Mayor Andy smiled and quickly approached her.
"Of course, how is he now?"
"He's graduating senior high, Mayor. That wouldn't have happened if not for you."
As we walked further, more people came out of their homes. Elderly folks made their way slowly with canes. Children, still in their school uniforms, chased after us, eager for a fist bump. Some families brought out old photos of Mayor Andy from years past—already framed and bearing his signature from a past campaign.
It felt like a fiesta on every corner. Children held up cartolinas, teens showed off DIY tarps they had made themselves.
"Mayor Andy, you're the hero in our hearts!"
"Still with you, Mayor! Until the end, you're our only one!"
Moments like these remind me over and over again:
This kind of love can't be faked. And it certainly can't be earned without true compassion.
—
When night fell, the Miting de Avance didn't feel like a political event—it felt like a reunion. A reconnection.
In Barangay Parulung, even before we arrived at the venue, the crowd had already filled the space. Some people stood by the roadside, phones ready, hoping to catch a glimpse or video of Mayor Andy's arrival.
Elderly men and women sat on plastic chairs, fanning themselves with cardboard scraps, refusing to leave even as the evening grew deeper.
And in Barangay Pando, the joy doubled. It was crowded. Warm. Loud. But alive.
The stage was simple. No extravagant decorations. But it was brightened by the genuine presence of the people who came—not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
When Mayor Andy arrived, the place erupted. People swarmed him like he was a celebrity. He could barely walk. Some screamed, some cried, others simply raised their hands as if they had just been handed back their hope.
And when he finally spoke, the crowd fell silent.
Not because someone told them to.
But because they wanted to listen.
"I don't know how I'll ever repay this kind of love," he began. "They say I've never received an award... but this—your eyes, your applause, your trust—this is the greatest prize I've ever received in my life."
He paused.
Took a deep breath.
Looked at every face in the crowd of Parulung and Pando.
"I will never forget you."
Applause thundered. No cue cards. No rehearsed chants.
Just pure emotion.
Pure support.
A night that poured out every bit of the people's hearts.
In Barangays Parulung and Pando, it became clear:
Mayor Andy wasn't just a candidate.
He was a memory. A home. A reason for his people to continue hoping.
—
And when the cheers finally faded and people slowly made their way home, each one carried something with them—a memory, a smile, a hug, a glance from a leader they loved.
The place grew quiet once again. I started packing up.
And there, in the middle of the quiet, Mayor Andy walked up to me.
He looked tired. His body clearly bore the weight of the day—the heat, the rain, the exhaustion, the hundreds of hands he had shaken. But his eyes—they still sparkled. He looked more energized than ever.
"Thank you," he said softly, but with so much sincerity.
"I know… I forget to say this sometimes. But thank you. For everything."
I froze. I couldn't speak right away.
Somehow, all my own exhaustion vanished, like smoke blown away by the wind.
No grand speech.
No audience.
Just a simple thank you.
And it was more than enough to make my heart beat stronger.
I smiled—not because I had to, but because it was real.
And in my heart, though I didn't say it out loud, this was my silent reply:
I don't need applause.
I don't need a stage.
Just seeing people happy, watching Team Anjo keep fighting, witnessing every smile I capture through my camera, hearing every burst of laughter despite the sweat and sore feet—that's my reward.
Seeing Mayor Andy never give up—that's why I wake up every day to do this.
I gave him a small nod.
"We do this again tomorrow," he said, patting me on the shoulder like a long-time friend. A brother in this shared battle of dreams.
And from afar, I saw others still lingering. An old man sitting quietly by the road, watching Mayor Andy walk to his car. A child still waving long after the music had faded. A teenager snapping a selfie with the caption: "No other Mayor."
I smiled again.
We do this again tomorrow.
Because this is more than just a campaign.
This is a journey.
And with every barangay we walk through, every home we greet, every heart we open—
we carve a memory.
And tomorrow… before the sun rises again,
we'll write another story—with the people who continue to believe.