Day Three of Team Anjo's house-to-house campaign and Miting de Avance was held in Barangay San Francisco, Sitio Macangcong, and Barangay Dungan.
Although the past days had been exhausting, the heat was relentless, and the weight of the campaign was becoming heavier—no one showed signs of slowing down. If anything, each member of Team Anjo seemed more energized, more determined to bring forward their message of hope, service, and compassion.
As always, they were greeted with familiar smiles—genuine, wholehearted, and warm. Smiles that no money could ever buy. The kind of smile that speaks volumes before a single word is even said. And in every barangay, it no longer felt like a campaign—it felt like a reunion among friends.
In Barangay San Francisco, several elderly residents waited patiently outside their homes. Some leaned on walking canes, others sat on small wooden benches, and a few stood with difficulty just to catch a glimpse of Mayor Andy. One elderly man even walked up to the mayor, his hand trembling as he gripped Andy's hand tightly.
"Thank you, Mayor," he said, looking him straight in the eye. "For everything. I'll never forget you."
In Sitio Macangcong, an elderly woman clutched an old campaign photo of Mayor Andy from years ago. As he approached, she extended the photo, asking him to sign it once more.
And then there were the joyful encounters at every doorstep. One woman rushed out with cold water in her hands.
"Thank you, Nanay!" Mayor said with a playful grin. "You might run out of drinking water because of us!"
"Mayor! I'd much rather you drink this than my husband!" the woman laughed, making everyone around burst into laughter.
You couldn't see fatigue on anyone from Team Anjo. They kept moving forward—shaking hands, listening to stories, greeting every resident as if they were family. Mayor Andy, despite the sweat dripping from his brow, never turned down a single embrace.
"Sorry po, Nay, I probably smell sweaty already," he joked after one grandmother hugged him tightly.
"Mayor! Even if you didn't bathe for days, you'd still smell like roses!" she replied, drawing more laughter.
It was a hug that ignored heat or scent—a hug filled with longing and love.
As we walked, a man leaned toward us and quietly said,
"Boss… this. This is real. They're doing this not because they were paid. Not because they were told to. But because they truly love you."
And in that moment, I thought to myself: How do you even beat someone like this?
It wasn't a question of doubt. It was awe. Every day of walking beside him, shaking hands with strangers, listening to stories inside humble homes—I witnessed, again and again, just how deeply people loved Mayor Andy.
The way people welcomed him was different. It wasn't the usual "Hi, Mayor" with a wave. It was the kind of welcome you'd give to a long-lost son. There were tears. There were elderly men and women forcing themselves to walk, even with trembling knees, just to reach out and touch his hand. Kids squeezed through the crowd, hoping for a single tap on the head.
This wasn't admiration because of his title—it was love built on heart. On his sincere "How are you?" On his ability to truly listen to mothers, fathers, grandparents, and young people, like they were the only person in the world at that moment.
And Mayor Andy didn't just wave or smile. He stopped at every home. He shook hands. He shared conversations. He didn't care about the heat, the sweat, or the hours he'd already spent on the road.
—
As night fell, we made our way to the evening's venues: Barangay San Francisco, Sitio Macangcong, and Barangay Dungan. The streetlights looked like stars on the ground, and every home along the way stood witness to a night filled with hope. Even before the program started, you could already feel something powerful—not from political presence, but from a heart that had been serving for so long and still chose to serve.
People poured in one by one. You didn't need to ask why they were there. You could see it in their eyes—trust.
Before a simple stage, under nothing but lightbulbs strung along wires, there was a light even stronger than any spotlight: the people's unwavering belief in their leader.
There were no celebrities. No flashy productions. But the area was packed. Some people stood. Others stayed at the edges. All of them just wanted to see Mayor Andy, to hear him speak—even if they'd already heard his message a dozen times before.
And when he arrived, the crowd surged toward him. It wasn't just the arrival of a candidate—it was the arrival of hope. He climbed the stage, raised his hand, and on his face, I saw something you couldn't fake with a smile: humility, gratitude, and sincere happiness.
His voice, though tired, rang strong during his speech.
"Thank you all so much for your unwavering support," he began, his eyes roaming across the crowd. "If we're given another chance, we'll open every door that was closed—especially for education and healthcare."
The place fell silent. No clapping. Not yet. It felt like everyone paused to absorb each word. Then someone clapped. And suddenly, a wave of cheers followed. Not the kind you give a politician—but the kind you give a friend, a son of the town, a true servant of the people.
As the program came to an end, and the lights began to dim, we still saw the people standing in place. No one rushed to leave. It was as if they didn't want the night to end. And though our feet ached from hours of walking, our hearts were heavier—with gratitude.
As we left the venue, Mayor Andy turned to me and softly said:
"I don't know what the final results will be… but tonight, I feel like we already won. In the hearts of those who believe in us."
And that night, he didn't win alone.
The people who believed in him… won too.
Hope won.
Heart won.
And in my chest, something quiet but undeniable whispered:
How do you beat a leader who is already embraced by his people—not just with words, but with their whole hearts?
You can't.
Because when the people are the ones holding you up—
There is no higher crown than their love.