There are moments that you simply cannot forget—not because of noise,
but because of feelings you cannot explain.
Such was the night in Barangay Mabilog.
The covered court had become a stage for the town's love for a leader they had long cherished.
Early on, the place was already full.
From the youngest wearing a red shirt,
to the eldest clutching a fan and a photo of Mayor Andy,
each carried their own reason for being there.
But the chant was one:
"ANDY! ANDY! ANDY!"
"BRING BACK THE RED!"
In every corner of the court, people brought something—
tarpaulins they made themselves,
youths crafting props with "I ❤️ U Mayor Andy" written on them,
food offerings, simple tokens of gratitude from hearts that remember.
When Mayor Andy Lacson entered, time seemed to stop.
He didn't rush. He didn't head straight to the stage.
He approached each person—one hand, one hug, one kiss, one smile at a time.
Someone handed him a garland lei made of flowers.
It was carefully draped around his neck as sweet words whispered in the air:
"Mayor, thank you. Through hardship and ease, you never left."
"You are the color that gave us life."
"You are the red that never fades."
He was not welcomed as a politician—
he was welcomed as family.
And with every step inside the court,
you could feel his arrival was like coming home—
home of a son long awaited.
Mothers came forward carrying their children.
Elders struggled to stand despite aching knees.
Youth shouted together, as if rehearsing their voices for the upcoming election.
When he stood on the stage, the cheers rose again:
"BRING BACK THE RED!"
"MAYOR ANDY, WE ARE THE CAPITAL OF YOUR LOVE!"
Yet despite all the praise, his words were simple:
"I may not reach everyone,
but as long as there's a chance,
I will never leave you."
The air held still. The night quieted—not because noise ceased,
but because of the weight of his meaning.
In that simple statement, everyone felt the pure intent of a leader who never turns to votes,
but steps forward to say thank you.
As he began to move around after his speech,
a young girl approached and handed him a letter titled:
"Thank you, Mayor, for building TSU."
That was when I realized:
Mayor Andy is not just a politician.
He is a memory of a time when leaders were true, had heart, and bore dignity.
In Barangay Mabilog, you don't need a campaign to be loved.
Loyalty alone is reason enough.
—
As Mayor and I walked home together from the successful caucus in Barangay Mabilog,
he suddenly stopped and glanced at me, saying,
"So many people, huh?"
His eyes held wonder and admiration,
as if every smile, every clap, and every cheer had pierced his heart.
"Mayor," I said, watching the crowd behind us still chanting his name,
"The people trust you deeply—not just because of what you have done,
but because they know and feel you have so much more to give.
You are their hope for a new tomorrow."
He sighed, a deep breath releasing feelings long buried.
"I hope so," he answered quietly but filled with hope.
"There's so much left to do. Projects stalled, dreams not yet fulfilled…"
Mayor Lacson fell silent for a moment,
as if a dream long carried returned to his mind.
"Especially the TSU," he added.
"That's truly my dream—a university of our own here.
An institution open to all, especially those young people who can't afford to pay for their education.
I don't want young hearts to only dream without a chance because of money.
I want them to focus on how to pass, not on how to pay."
I nodded, knowing the depth of his conviction.
This was no political promise.
It was a dream with substance, direction, and above all—a heart.
"Mayor," I said,
"that dream is not just yours.
It's the dream of every family wanting to lift their children out of poverty.
Every time you speak of it, people love you more—because of your genuine heart and belief in leaving no one behind."
He smiled again—not the camera smile, not the politician's smile,
but a calm, sincere smile filled with faith in the future.
—
As I walked away down the street, quietly reflecting on all that had happened that day,
I knew the fatigue was real—but the joy was greater.
Another night passed where I saw clearly how deeply people love a leader
who never wavers in his convictions.
This is more than a campaign.
It is a journey—not just for Mayor Lacson,
but for all who believe in him.
With each barangay we visit, I see more clearly
how important it is to be true, honest, and compassionate.
With every shout of support, every clap, every simple pat on the shoulder or thankful smile,
my belief grows stronger that we are not walking without direction.
And as silence gradually swallowed the night,
my heart was full.
Tomorrow is a new day.
A new step toward a goal not just for a few, but for the whole town.
This is the story of service.
It does not end on the stage.
It begins in listening, in empathy, and in standing up again—day after day.