The town was quiet.
No motorcade.
No cheering.
No banners flapping in the wind.
But even without noise, everyone's heart seemed to be screaming.
It was election day.
Even before sunrise, people were already lining up at the precincts.
The elderly sat waiting outside schools, clutching their voter's IDs, wearing their best clothes, carrying prayers with every step.
"This is for Mayor," whispered one lola, pushing past those younger than her.
Young people got up earlier than usual. Parents brought their kids along, not just to show them how to vote, but to show them that casting a vote is a promise made for the future of their town.
It was quiet.
But you could feel the tension.
You could see it in the eyes of supporters who'd spent months sacrificing, joining motorcades, bringing food, editing photos, printing tarps, carrying water, cheering, praying, crying in caucuses as if this campaign had become part of their lives.
There was worry in the hearts of people who'd once been quiet but, day by day, slowly found themselves believing again in a leader they'd trusted for years.
Even Team Anjo was silent.
Sitting in headquarters, no campaign shirts, no red colors.
On this day, they just wanted to be ordinary citizens hoping their stand would be heard.
And Mayor Andy?
He was quiet too.
No posts.
No statements.
But they said he voted early.
Quietly.
Smiling, waving, then leaving.
Even without him around, it felt like he was there.
As if every precinct held his mark.
On the walls.
On the paper.
In the hearts of everyone.
As dusk fell and precincts began to close, people slowly gathered in the plaza. No one told them to come.
They just did. Instinct. As if their hearts said: This is where we'll wait. This is where we'll pray.
Some sat on the curb.
Others brought folding chairs.
Some laid out cardboard.
A few had food with them, not to celebrate, but to soothe the worry gnawing at them.
A lone lola sat quietly under a tree.
She had no companion.
Just her rosary, counting every bead like each prayer was for the results.
Every breath seemed to say: "I hope our town makes the right choice. I hope our voice is heard."
A group of young people stared at their phones.
Refresh.
Refresh.
Over and over.
No official results yet.
But every tweet, every post, every rumor was something to hold onto for now.
In another corner of the plaza, eyes were already crying, not out of sadness yet, but from the weight of the day.
They knew they'd done all they could, and now, what came next was out of their hands.
My own heart was beating faster and heavier.
It wasn't just nerves anymore.
And when the official tally came out…
We lost.
I went numb.
I couldn't help but ask myself:
Where were all the people who greeted us then?
Where was the applause that gave us strength?
Where were those tender eyes and hands that gripped so tightly?
It was like they all disappeared.
I stayed silent, but i could feel the tears falling.
Not just for myself, but for all of them.
For everyone who gave their whole heart, who prayed, who trusted.
It felt like the world stopped around me.
The weight of losing, it's impossible to put into words.
But even so, there was a small voice in my heart saying: "This isn't the end."
This isn't the final chapter.
It's the start of a new fight.
And even now, with the sting and the sadness, hope remains.
Because true victory isn't measured by the result.
It's measured by the courage of a heart that stands back up and keeps fighting.