Each day of the campaign feels like a page from a novel—one written not just by the candidate, but by the people themselves.
And in every barangay, there is a story. A tear. A cry of hope.
Today, it wasn't just our feet that felt tired from the journey, but our hearts too—overwhelmed by the wave of emotions that met us in every home, in every hand reached out, in every hopeful eye silently wishing:
"Let it be him again."
Our first stop was Barangay Sta. Cruz, specifically in Sitio Pao—a small but vibrant community nestled amid green fields and rough roads.
But no matter the terrain, the warmth of the welcome made every step lighter.
As soon as we arrived in Sitio Pao, we were greeted by weary but excited smiles.
Even before Mayor Andy could step out of the vehicle, a group of elderly residents came forward. Among them, a member of the LGBTQIA+ community offered him a garland lei.
"Mayor, this is for you," they said, hand trembling, but spirit steady.
They placed the garland around his neck—gently, respectfully, and full of hope.
As always, Mayor Andy did not accept the gesture without returning the love.
He hugged them, patted their shoulders, and offered his heartfelt thanks.
It wasn't the first garland.
It wasn't the first embrace.
But with each one draped around his neck, it felt like a promise was being made:
That in the hearts of these people, Andy is still the one they believe in.
—
As the house-to-house continued in Sta. Cruz, the sincerity of the residents' welcome never waned.
This was more than just coming out to greet the mayor—some had genuinely prepared, not for show, but to express care and affection for a leader they believed had long been worthy of return.
In one part of the sitio, under the scorching sun, a family had laid out sandwiches and cold drinks for us.
Set on a small wooden table covered with a worn cloth, a jar of ice-cold juice stood in the center.
"Mayor, please rest for a bit. Just a little snack—from the heart," said the mother of the house.
Mayor smiled and replied,
"Thank you so much, this is more than enough."
He didn't refuse. He sat down for a while, took a bite, and chatted with them like an old friend.
—
As we continued walking, we entered a narrow alley—cramped like the spaces between houses, yet wide open were the hearts and doors of the people within.
Passing through, one house caught our attention. Outside, a speaker was blasting Mayor Andy's campaign jingle.
Mayor stopped in front of it. Smiled. Shook his head slightly in amusement.
"Wow," he murmured.
"Solid support."
Soon, the homeowner—a woman in her mid-40s, wearing a red shirt with tears welling in her eyes—stepped outside.
"Mayor?!" she gasped.
Without hesitation, she ran to him and hugged him tightly.
She didn't care about the cameras or the crowd.
That hug felt like a long-awaited reunion.
As if she'd been waiting years for this exact moment.
"I can't believe it… here at my house, of all places… Thank you, Mayor," she whispered, still holding onto his arm.
Mayor was momentarily speechless. He gently held her shoulder and said,
"I should be the one thanking you. It's because of people like you that I keep going."
Right there in that narrow alley—hot, tight, crowded—love overflowed.
Behind every door we knocked on lived a story of admiration, loyalty, and resilient hope.
This was no longer just a campaign.
It was a walk back into the hearts of people who had long been waiting for the return of the leader they chose—their Andy.
—
From Sitio Pao, we continued to Barangay Sto. Cristo.
Two different places. Two different crowds. But the same emotion—love.
As we neared the covered court of Sto. Cristo, the car didn't need to pull in.
The road was already full—every corner brimming with people ready to welcome us.
Red flags hung from posts.
Streamers made only from cartolina and markers were more meaningful than any printed tarp.
One read:
"Even without tarps, our support remains strong!"
Children held up papers showing their support for Mayor Andy.
Elderly women busied themselves preparing snacks for volunteers.
One house played the campaign jingle.
A group lined up just to shake the mayor's hand.
There wasn't even a rally yet, but it already felt like a fiesta.
And when the crowd saw Mayor Andy, they rushed to him—hugging, holding his arm, one even kissed his hand.
Each embrace seemed to reclaim the years they didn't see him in office.
Because even then, they never forgot him.
"Mayor, finally, you're back here again," said a woman holding a banner that read:
"Bring Back the Red."
From Sta. Maria, to Pitabunan, Sta. Cruz, and now Sto. Cristo—
It felt like a cascade of garlands.
But not just that—a cascade of trust.
And each lei, each ribbon, was like a thread stitching his heart back to the town he serves.
—
As the day came to an end and the skies turned dark, the people's eyes remained bright.
Not because of the lights, but because of the hope that had been rekindled.
In Sta. Cruz and Sto. Cristo, it wasn't just garlands they handed to Mayor Andy—it was their hearts, waiting patiently for years.
With every hand that reached out to him, every voice that shouted "Bring Back the Red!", you could feel—this was not just about the election.
This was a call from a town longing for the return of a leader they loved, trusted, and never gave up on.
And in the quiet of that night, as we drove away from Sto. Cristo, a voice called out from the distance:
"Mayor, wherever life may take you… we'll be here. Waiting. Hoping."
And maybe that was the most important voice of all—
A voice of loyalty.
A voice of love that never grew tired, for a leader who never truly left.