The sun was blazing that day. It stood high in the sky, as if it, too, wanted to witness a journey that was no longer just a campaign—but a march of hope.
We walked through the narrow streets of Barangay San Martin, followed by Barangay Lilibangan, bringing with us signs of change and smiles full of conviction.
At every corner, in every yard, families were waiting—as if they had been standing there for hours. Some held umbrellas, others fanned themselves, and many had damp towels draped around their necks to fight off the heat. But not a single one turned back.
Some stood beneath the shade of trees, while others stepped out of their homes. There were elderly in wheelchairs and little children lined up by the roadside, waving tiny flags with shaky hands.
"That's Mayor Andy! It's him!" shouted a woman, waving a white handkerchief above her head.
But one moment stood out from the rest.
A father stood in front of their home, sweat trickling down his forehead—but his smile… his smile was worth more than gold.
The moment he saw Mayor Andy, he rushed forward. But he didn't even need to say a word—Mayor was already walking toward him, hand extended with his ever-genuine warmth.
"Mayor, please come in… we prepared a little something," he said.
He led Mayor inside their humble home and offered some snacks, which he proudly said came from Beautiful Sunday.
"It's simple… but it comes from the heart," he added, his voice trembling, tears quietly threatening to fall.
And in moments like those, everything else faded away.
Because this wasn't just politics anymore.
This was something deeper—a reunion of trust, a connection between a leader and the people who never stopped believing in him.
As the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky and the noise of excited greetings began to settle, another memory carved itself into my heart.
A family stood at the side of the road.
They were holding a garland lei made of fresh flowers, with the words "Next Mayor" written on it. A woman beside them held a bouquet—something you'd expect to see at a wedding or concert—but today, it was for a leader they loved.
"Mayor..." the woman whispered, offering the flowers, "Thank you for everything. You didn't make promises, but you were the one who fulfilled them."
Tears gathered in her eyes.
Mayor bowed his head slightly, accepting their love—not with grandeur, but with quiet grace.
In moments like that, even i couldn't help but be moved.
It wasn't the first time someone had handed him flowers.
It wasn't the first time someone had embraced him in gratitude.
But every time it happened, it hit just as hard—as if I was witnessing hope in its rawest form.
"Mayor… we've been here since noon," said an elderly woman, clutching the hand of her grandchild. "Even in this heat, we wouldn't leave. We just wanted to see you, even for a second."
And Mayor?
He didn't just wave.
He walked up to her, placed a hand gently on her shoulder, and said,
"I'm the one who should be grateful. Because of you, I have the strength to keep going."
—
From San Martin, we headed straight to the Miting de Avance.
The stage was set up at the covered court beside the barangay hall, and even before the program officially began, the place was nearly full. The councilors, board members, and guests all took turns speaking—each with a dream, a plan, a heart for the people.
But when Mayor Andy finally took the stage, everything fell silent.
People stopped fanning themselves. They leaned forward. They listened.
"I didn't expect this many people to come to our Miting de Avance," he said.
"Back then, we could count how many showed up to events like this. But now… I've lost count. And it only means one thing: I'm not alone. We're not alone."
The crowd erupted in cheers. People chanted his name.
"Andy! Andy!"
Still, he stayed grounded.
"Thank you for your time, your trust, and your love—for me and for our town. I hope that when election day comes, you vote not because you know a candidate's name, but because you know their heart. A heart that's genuine. A heart that's willing to sacrifice."
After the warm welcome in San Martin, we moved on to Lilibangan.
It was a celebration waiting to explode. Residents carried homemade banners and printed tarps—some crafted by hand, others designed by young volunteers who believed in the cause.
The energy wasn't any less than the previous stops.
There was laughter, chanting, tearful hugs, and attentive listening.
But what we received in Lilibangan wasn't just a welcome.
It was love.
Love in its truest form—honest, unfiltered, and unstoppable.
And as night finally took over the skies, beneath the bright lights of the stage and the thunder of applause, I saw clearly what drove Mayor Andy to keep going.
He wasn't doing this for position.
He wasn't doing this for prestige.
He was doing it for the fathers who offered him food.
For the mothers who handed him flowers with trembling hands.
For the children who dream of better days.
And that night, as cool air mingled with the warmth of the crowd's love, one truth stood above all else:
With every step Mayor Andy takes, he does not walk alone.
He walks with thousands of hearts beside him—
believing, hoping, fighting, and loving.