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The city was in its usual, indifferent rush, but the parking lot outside the Commission on Elections office was far from indifferent. Media vans were lined up like battle tanks. Tripods stood like rifles aimed at the front steps. Reporters, photographers, interns with sweaty brows and mics tucked into armpits—all waited, eyes sharp, mouths poised. But Jhoanna walked past them alone.

No entourage. No publicist. No husband in tow. Just a tan tote bag on one shoulder, flats dusted by sidewalk grime, and a printed copy of her Certificate of Candidacy tucked inside a blue envelope labeled “Original Copy — PERSONAL.” She was dressed in a plain white blouse and slacks—too casual for politics, too polished for a protest. 

She did not wave. She did not smile. She did not stop for the cameras. The only sound was the sharp click of her shoes on the cracked government office floor as she entered.

Inside, the air was stiff. Fluorescent lights flickered above filing counters. Civil servants in polos blinked at her from behind acrylic barriers. A young staff member in COMELEC vest stood up, startled, then gestured toward the proper desk.

“Ma’am, for mayoral—dito po sa kabila.” Jhoanna nodded. Her throat felt dry.

This was real. Filing was supposed to be a formality, but she knew the gravity it held. It was an act of rebellion in itself. A woman like her—young, unmarried, backed by no traditional party—wasn’t supposed to want this. Let alone try.

She placed her envelope gently on the counter. The officer raised his brows slightly, then took the papers. A minute passed. Then two.

Outside, the noise swelled. At first, it was subtle—the distant murmur of tires skidding, an excited murmur in the crowd. Then came the sound of multiple shutters firing in rapid succession, like a flurry of gunshots. Then a chorus of overlapping voices.

“ATTY. ARCETA! Atty. Aiah! Over here po! One picture lang!”

“Are you running for mayor, Ma’am?”

“Any comments about the rival candidate?”

The name hit Jhoanna’s spine like ice. She didn’t need to turn. She already knew who it was. Still, she lifted her head, and there she was.

Maraiah Queen Arceta—two years older, bar topnotcher, infinitely more poised. She stepped through the glass doors with all the calm of a storm brewing offshore. Her maroon suit was custom-fitted, ironed to perfection. Hair loose. Diamond stud earrings. Her stilettos echoed across the tiles like declarations. Aiah didn’t come alone. Two staffers trailed her—one holding a thick folder and whispering updates, and her father’s former chief of staff was also in tow, phone glued to his ear, glancing around like a bodyguard.

But when Aiah saw Jhoanna, the entire room faded. They locked eyes. They hadn’t seen each other in years. Not since the night Jhoanna walked out of that hotel conference room during the alumni gala, not even bothering to say good bye.

Aiah smirked first. Her eyes swept over Jhoanna’s outfit, unimpressed. “Well,” she said. “I didn’t expect someone like you would actually run, Robles.”

Jhoanna scoffed, shifting her weight to one hip. “Same. I thought you’d be too busy lawyering for crooks to actually run yourself.”

The officer behind the desk looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

Aiah gave a dry chuckle. “Wow. Still bitter after all these years?”

“Still fake after all these years?” Jhoanna countered, arms crossed. “Thought you preferred hiding behind powerful men.”

Aiah took a single step closer. “And I thought you preferred being the moral police of everyone else’s decisions. Guess that’s not working out?”

Jhoanna bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t going to lose her temper. Not here.

Aiah leaned in just a little, enough for only them to hear. “You’re seriously running for mayor?” she said, voice low. “What’s next, a vlog? A podcast? ‘From Student Activist to Political Mascot’?”

Jhoanna blinked slowly. “And you’re seriously running on your own? Not on your daddy’s name? Not on that senator’s leash?” A flicker of something passed over Aiah’s face.

Before either could say more, the COMELEC staff cleared his throat. “Ma’am Arceta—if you’re here to file po, dito rin po sa counter—”

“I know where to go,” Aiah snapped, and turned. But she looked back, just once. Jhoanna was still standing there. Unmoved. Eyes sharp as a scalpel.

When Aiah walked away, the flashbulbs went wild outside once again. The door slammed behind her.

Jhoanna exhaled slowly, then glanced at the officer. “Do I need to sign anything else?”

He nodded silently.

A few minutes later, she was done. Candidacy filed. No turning back. Outside, the press had swarmed again, but this time they were torn between two poles: Aiah, now giving a brief, confident statement to the cameras, and the possibility of another woman-mayoral-candidate slipping past them. Jhoanna didn’t stop to give them the chance.

She moved through the crowd like fog—swift, quiet, untouchable. A camera tried to block her path, and she ducked under it with a polite, “Sorry, I have no time for this.”

Someone shouted, “Ma’am Jhoanna! Ma’am, ano po reaction niyo kay Atty. Arceta?!” but she didn’t respond. She only glanced, briefly, at the reflection of Aiah’s press huddle on a nearby car window.

Jhoanna slipped into the back of a waiting taxi—one she booked herself. As the driver pulled away, he looked at her through the rearview mirror. “Ma’am, tatakbo po kayo?”

Jhoanna offered a tired smile. “Yeah,” she said. “Unfortunately.”

The moment Jhoanna stepped out of the taxi and into the dimly lit lobby of her modest campaign headquarters—a converted two-floor space above her uncle’s old printing shop in the city proper—she was greeted by the familiar scent of cheap coffee, floor wax, and the faint metallic whine of an aging electric fan.

“Ma’am Jhoanna?”

It was Kuya Elmer, the family’s longtime secretary. Mid-50s, balding, polo always slightly untucked, and voice always laced with concern, whether he was asking about printer ink or the political fate of the Robles family. He had worked under her father back when the old man served on the city congress, and after her dad passed, he simply never left.

“Bakit parang ang lungkot mo po?” he asked, brows drawing together as he stepped forward from the makeshift reception table. “Ayos ka lang po ba? May nangyari po ba sa COMELEC? Hindi ka po ba nakapag-file?”

“I did po,” Jhoanna replied with a practiced smile, the kind that barely reached the corners of her lips. “Na-file ko naman. Okay lang.”

“Sigurado ka? Baka may gulo—press? Or may nambastos?”

She gently waved him off. “Wala po, kuya. Okay lang talaga. Just tired. Sobrang init sa labas.”

Elmer hesitated, clearly not believing her, but years of working for politicians had taught him which silences not to press. He simply nodded and stepped aside, opening the door to her office.

“Sige po, ma’am. Gagawa po ako ng kape, dalhin ko na lang po sa office niyo.”

“Thanks, kuya.”

She walked past him and entered the room.

The office wasn’t much—bare walls, a wide corkboard with only a few photos and sticky notes tacked up, and an old desk lamp that flickered when the power dipped. The floors still bore faint scuff marks from when this room used to be her uncle’s chess club. A few campaign posters were stacked neatly in the corner, untouched.

Jhoanna dropped her bag on the desk with a thud and slumped into her office chair. She leaned back, letting the old seat creak as it tilted under her weight. She swung it slowly, side to side, staring up at the cracked ceiling. A soft groan escaped her lips. She closed her eyes, and there it was again—that look. The one Aiah gave her back in the COMELEC office. That smug, tight-lipped smirk she used to flash back in law school debates when she knew she was winning. That flash of heat in her eyes. The way her voice dipped, intimate, sharp.

It wasn’t just hatred. Not just rivalry. There was something else in the way they spoke to each other. Something that hadn’t been buried deep enough.

It was late afternoon, the kind of golden hour that drenched the university grounds in the kind of light you couldn’t replicate in photos. The breeze was lazy, swaying the tall grass. The sounds of jeepneys from a nearby highway were muted, distant, like the campus had pulled a curtain between itself and the rest of the world.

Jhoanna, then only 20 and still in the middle of her second year, lay sprawled on a picnic mat under the shade of an acacia tree. Her shoes were off, toes digging into the grass, a cold bottle of Mountain Dew resting on her stomach. She wore a faded org shirt and shorts that barely passed dress code.

Jhoanna was sitting upright beside her, arms wrapped around her knees. Her long hair was still down then, cascading past her shoulders. She had a thick, highlighter-marked reviewer resting in her lap but hadn’t read a word in the last ten minutes.

“Gusto ko mag-ombudsman,” Aiah had said out of nowhere, gaze distant, following a squirrel skittering up a tree trunk.

Jhoanna blinked up at her from the grass. “Wow, okay.”

“I’m serious,” Aiah said, laughing softly. “I want to prosecute corrupt officials. ‘Yung mga pa-victim sa media pero may offshore accounts pala. I want to make them cry. In court. On record.”

Jhoanna snorted. “So basically, you want to emotionally destroy people and be applauded for it?”

“Exactly.”

They both laughed.

“What about you?” Aiah asked, finally turning to look down at her. “What do you wanna be after all this?”

Jhoanna frowned, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I used to think gusto ko maging journalist. But now… maybe public office? Like… city council? Mayor, even?”

“Wow, mayor agad?” Aiah teased, poking her side with her toe. “Baka naman ikaw pala ‘yung magiging corrupt. Gagawa ka ng overpriced basketball court sa mga barangay.”

Jhoanna sat up and raised a finger dramatically. “Excuse me. My basketball court will be transparent and participatory. May feedback form pa sa gitna.”

“Wow. Progressive.”

“Ikaw? Hindi ka tatakbo?”

“Nope,” Aiah said firmly. “Parang lolokohin ko lang sarili ko if I do.”

They both cackled. Jhoanna nudged her with her shoulder. “So you’re gonna stay sa sidelines?”

“I guess,” Aiah said, leaning back on her palms now. The sun glinted off her eyes. “Powerful, feared, rarely photographed.”

Jhoanna watched her for a moment. The wind picked up, brushing stray strands of hair against Aiah’s cheek. She reached out and tucked the strands behind Aiah’s ear. Aiah didn’t move.

“You know,” Jhoanna whispered, voice soft, “I think you’re gonna be in politics. You’re too scary not to be.”

Aiah leaned closer, a tiny smirk playing on her lips. “And I think you’re gonna run for office.”

“And?”

“And I’m going to be your worst nightmare.”

They were both smiling now. Jhoanna leaned in. “You already are.”

The office chair creaked as Jhoanna sat up. She rubbed her face, hard, like she could scrub the memory out of her brain. But it lingered anyway—like perfume on an old shirt.

Kuya Elmer knocked on the door softly. “Ma’am, kape niyo po.”

Jhoanna looked up, eyes glassy.

She forced a smile. “Thank you, kuya.”

As the door closed again, she leaned back once more.

She knew now. This campaign wasn’t just about city ordinances or budget transparency. It was about her, Aiah, and everything they left unfinished.

The rain started at exactly 2:07 a.m.

It was the light kind at first—barely a whisper on the roof, just enough to stir the air and make the curtains at her bedroom window sway gently. But even without the rain, Jhoanna knew sleep wasn’t going to come tonight.

She was curled on her side, one hand under her pillow, the other clutching her phone—not to scroll, not to reply, not to tweet. Just to hold it. The screen was off, but her thumb kept grazing the home button like a nervous tic.

Aiah Arceta is running for mayor.

It shouldn’t bother her. Not after all those years. Not after all the progress, the healing, the dating-other-people phase, the pretending-not-to-care era, the countless committee hearings and networking brunches that should’ve erased the sting of a name she hadn’t said out loud in years. But tonight, it was back. That ache. That very specific kind of heartbreak—the kind that sat between her lungs and refused to move. She turned to lie on her back and stared at the ceiling, just like earlier in her office.

Aiah.

Even thinking the name felt like a betrayal to herself.

She had told her friends she’d moved on. She had told her therapist she had processed everything. She had told herself, on particularly strong days, that she was better off. That she was done. That it didn’t matter anymore. But seeing her again—hearing her voice, the way she said “I didn’t expect someone like you would actually run” with that same mocking lilt she always had—it pulled something open again. Something old. Something tender.

Jhoanna swallowed hard and shut her eyes. And just like that, she was back in that moment.

The library was unusually quiet that Friday night. Finals week had just ended, and most students were either out drinking or catching up on sleep. But Jhoanna, ever the overachiever, was doing post-finals readings for a conference she was set to speak at.

She had brought coffee for two, out of habit. Aiah had a thing for Spanish latte. She pushed open the glass door to the smaller reading room they usually holed up in, two seats near the window already claimed by her tote bag and Aiah’s highlighters. Except, Aiah wasn’t there. Yet.

Jhoanna set the drinks down and checked her phone.

Maraiah Queen Arceta 

Hi baby, I might be late. I’m still at the meeting ng intern group.

With Senator Esquivel lol, don’t freak out.

Jhoanna froze.

Senator Mateo Esquivel.

The name alone made her stomach turn.

He was the poster boy of old-school corruption—a warlord masquerading as a statesman, with ties to local dynasties, hush-hush controversies about vote-buying, and a fondness for fake populist speeches that made Jhoanna’s blood boil.

She reread the message.

Don’t freak out.

How could she not?

The door creaked open fifteen minutes later, and in walked Aiah—still wearing her blazer, still carrying that air of confidence, still looking too calm for someone who had just poked the beehive of Jhoanna’s political ethics.

“Baby,” Aiah said casually, like it was just another night. “Sorry, ang tagal ng meeting. Naabutan pa ako ng dinner ni senator—”

“Why him?” The question shot out of Jhoanna’s mouth before she could soften it.

Aiah blinked. “Huh?”

“Why Esquivel, Aiah? Of all people. You know what he stands for. You know what he’s done. You know how much I—”

“Oh my god, Jho.” Aiah laughed under her breath, like it was a joke. “This again? Can you relax? It’s an internship. It’s not like I’m marrying the guy.”

Jhoanna stood up, heart pounding. “You’re interning for someone who literally covered up a corruption scandal involving a rice importation monopoly. This isn’t some thesis adviser. He’s—he’s everything we despise.”

“I know,” Aiah said, voice tight now. “I know who he is. But he’s also powerful. He knows how the system works. If I want to survive in this world, I need to learn from people like him.”

Jhoanna shook her head. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna fold? After everything we talked about? After all those nights we stayed up talking about fixing the system, and now you're kissing the ring of the guy who broke it?”

Aiah’s jaw clenched. “It’s called strategy, Jhoanna. Not everyone has the luxury to be idealistic 24/7.”

There was a long pause. And then, almost in a whisper: “I thought you were different.”

Aiah looked at her then—really looked at her. And something changed in her expression. Her shoulders stiffened. Her face hardened. “So did I,” she said.

Jhoanna turned to her side, pulling the blanket up over her shoulder even though the room wasn’t that cold.

The image of Aiah walking away from her in that library, eyes sharp, back straight, never once turning around—it still hurt. Not because of betrayal. Not exactly. But because it marked the moment she realized that love wasn’t enough—not when two people believed in entirely different things.

She had spent years convincing herself that was the right choice. That letting Aiah go had to happen. That it was maturity. That it was growth. But tonight, lying awake and aching, she wasn’t sure anymore. Because the ache had returned, and it sounded like Aiah’s voice.

The morning sun streamed through the frosted windows of Jhoanna’s office, casting long gold lines across the floor. The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air—strong, earthy, grounding. For once, the office was quiet.

She sipped her coffee slowly, the ceramic mug warm in her hands as she sat behind her desk. The old flatscreen TV mounted on the wall buzzed with the morning news.

“...the Commission on Elections officially closes the filing for local candidacy as of 5:00 p.m. yesterday,” the reporter announced. “And in a surprising twist for the mayoral race in Santa Maria City—only two candidates have filed for the position.”

Jhoanna didn’t flinch. Not at first. She brought the cup to her lips again, eyes half-lidded from sleep. But then—

“Attorney Maraiah Queen Arceta… and Miss Jhoanna Christine Robles.”

That was when her hand stopped mid-air.

Her name, and hers. No third-party candidate. No retired vice mayor. No token business mogul trying to buy influence. No fading political scion returning for a comeback. Just the two of them. Her and Aiah.

Jhoanna’s hand trembled slightly, and a single drop of coffee spilled onto a stack of folders beside her elbow. She didn’t even notice. Her eyes were still on the screen, even as the segment shifted to another story. The silence in the room suddenly felt deafening. It wasn’t fear—no, it was heavier than that. It was finality. The kind that settled deep in her chest and wouldn’t move. It was going to be them. A one-on-one match.

Years of history, heartbreak, unfinished conversations, shared dreams that turned to dust—and now, a mayoral race. Their names would be printed side by side on every ballot.

Before she could fully process the tightness in her chest, there was a knock on the door.

She looked up. “Come in.”

The door opened with a light squeak, and in came her mother—Mrs. Robles, her mother, her campaign strategist, and the warmest kind of storm. Her signature silk scarf was wrapped neatly around her neck, and her smile stretched from ear to ear.

“There she is! The next mayor of Santa Maria!” she beamed, walking in with a paper bag of pandesal and a folded broadsheet tucked under one arm.

Jhoanna tried to force a smile, but her mother didn’t wait for one. She placed the food on the table and leaned in, placing a soft kiss on her daughter’s forehead.

“I saw the news,” she said brightly. “Just you and Arceta. Grabe, anak! This is fate.”

Jhoanna looked down at her coffee, then back up at her mom. “Fate nga ba, Ma? Or just one big cosmic joke?”

Her mother laughed, misreading the heaviness in her voice. “Cosmic blessing, you mean! Sabi ko na, e—this is your time. Wala kang kalaban na trapo, walang galing sa political dynasty. It’s just her. And honestly? You’re gonna win, Jho.”

She sat on the edge of the desk and unwrapped a pandesal, handing it over.

“Your platforms are solid. Your track record speaks for itself. And more importantly, you have principles,” her mother said, eyes twinkling. “Hindi ka puppet. Hindi ka ginagamit. You’re the real thing. And people are hungry for that.”

Jhoanna nodded slowly, lips tightening. “I just didn’t expect it would be just the two of us.”

Her mom paused, sensing the shift in her tone. “Are you worried?”

“No,” she said too quickly. “Just surprised.”

“Because it’s her?” her mom asked gently.

Jhoanna’s shoulders tensed for a beat. She stared at the window as the sunlight shifted across the floor. “Yeah.”

Her mother studied her daughter for a moment. Then she sighed, her tone softening.

“Anak,” she said, placing a hand over Jhoanna’s. “Whatever happened between you two… it’s in the past. What matters now is the people. You’re not just running for yourself, remember that. You’re running for every kid who dreams of good governance. For every family tired of empty promises. For every woman who’s ever been told she can’t lead.”

Jhoanna nodded again, slower this time. “I know.”

Her mother stood up, straightened her scarf, and smoothed the front of her blouse.

“Good,” she said with a wink. “Because I already told the team to finalize the campaign strategy. We’ll have the first core meeting tomorrow afternoon. Press kits, launch video, district visits—the whole shebang. We start strong.”

Jhoanna finally let out a small laugh, though it was dry. “Hindi ka talaga nagpapahuli, Ma.”

“Of course not. I raised you for this.”

As her mother made her way toward the door, she paused and turned. “You still have time to shake it off, anak,” she said, her voice laced with motherly wisdom. “Whatever it is na nasa chest mo ngayon… don’t let it cloud your mind. We need you clear. Sharp.” Then she smiled, like she always did, and left the room with the door clicking gently behind her.

Jhoanna sat in silence again. She looked back at the TV. The news ticker was already onto traffic rerouting. But her eyes were still fixated on two names.

Robles. Arceta.

Jhoanna set her coffee down, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes. It was going to be a long, brutal campaign. And no matter how much she told herself she was ready—She wasn’t sure her heart was.

The Arceta residence was always quiet in the mornings, but today the silence was loaded.

Muted sunlight spilled into the living room where Aiah sat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the flat-screen television mounted on the stone wall. The news anchor was wrapping up the segment on the closing of the COC filing. Only two names had made it for the mayoral race.

Atty. Maraiah Queen Arceta. Jhoanna Christine Robles.

Aiah’s jaw tensed. She blinked once. Then again. So it was just the two of them. She should’ve guessed—no dynasty-backed contender, no opportunistic independent. Just fate having a sick sense of humor.

Her father let out a dry, low chuckle from his armchair across the room. “So. It’s her.”

She didn’t respond.

The bodyguards who accompanied her yesterday were still standing by the hallway—silent, impassive, eyes flicking between the screen and her father’s sudden laughter.

“Robles,” he said again, as if it tasted bitter in his mouth. “I didn’t think she’d actually run. Weak ang batang ‘yan. You have all the means to defeat that girl.”

Aiah pressed her thumb hard against the edge of her arm, leaving a crescent-shaped dent. Her father rarely watched the news with her unless it was political season—and when he did, it was never to listen. It was to expect.

“Did you hear me, Maraiah?” he said louder, now leaning forward. “Kayang-kaya mo siyang talunin.”

“I heard you,” she replied, coolly.

“You better,” he muttered. “Robles’ father humiliated me in the city congress elections in 2012. Nakakahiya. Do you know how many years I spent building my reputation after that loss?”

Aiah did know. She was thirteen when it happened. Thirteen and already learning to clench her teeth and nod on command.

He continued, voice rising. “That family has no place in city hall. Ang yayabang. Akala mo kung sinong malinis. But their name? It’s old. Yours is new. Fresh. Strategic.”

“I know,” Aiah said, sharper now. “You’ve said this before.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowing. “You better not disappoint me, Maraiah.”

She met his gaze head-on.

“I won’t.”

Her father exhaled through his nose. Then he leaned back and waved a dismissive hand. “Good. Start drafting your opening speech. Campaign strategist will be here after lunch.”

Aiah nodded stiffly. Her coffee had gone cold beside her, untouched.

He turned back to the television, his voice quieter but no less cutting. “Robles may have her idealism. But you? You have bloodline. And me. That’s more than enough.”

She stood from the couch. "Excuse me, I have work to do."

And without waiting for his reply, she left the room. She shut the door to her room a little harder than she meant to. The moment she was alone, her shoulders dropped, and she leaned against the door, pressing her forehead to the cool wood.

Only her and Jhoanna. It should have felt like an advantage—easier numbers, a clear enemy. But it didn’t. It felt like being thrown back into something unfinished, something she had spent years pretending she could live without. Because when she saw Jhoanna yesterday, standing alone at the COMELEC office in that defiance only she could wear—something in Aiah’s chest twisted, too.

By noon, the office no longer resembled the reflective space Jhoanna entered that morning. Now, it was full of chatter, rustling papers, and the occasional slam of an iced drink on the conference table. The campaign team—composed of family friends, community organizers, volunteers, and a few former city hall staff loyal to the Robles name—had gathered.

At the helm of it all was Jhoanna’s mother. She stood with arms confidently crossed and a printed calendar splayed across the corkboard.

“Okay, everyone. We have two months before the campaign period starts. That gives us exactly eight weeks to finalize logistics, refine messaging, and make sure every barangay captain knows who Jhoanna is and what she stands for. Walang sablay, ha?”

The room murmured in agreement, and chairs squeaked as people shifted, took notes, and exchanged ideas. A giant whiteboard at the end of the room bore the words:

Platform, People, Presence.

— J. Robles Campaign Strategy

 

Jhoanna sat near the center, a pen between her fingers and a laptop open. She tried to focus—she really did. She was the one who pushed for a grassroots-first strategy, and now here they were, beginning to flesh it out: health reform, anti-corruption policies, youth inclusion, local business support.

But every time someone said the word “opponent,” her mind flickered back to that moment at COMELEC. To her. Aiah, with that same cutting stare. The same mouth that used to say “baby, I believe in you.” now saying “I didn’t think someone like you would actually ru.”

“Jho?” her mother called gently, snapping her out of her haze.

“Hmm?”

“We’re talking about launch event venues. You okay with doing the first campaign rally in the plaza near the old city hall?”

“Yeah. That works. It’s where Dad had his first rally, ‘di ba?”

Her mother smiled. “Exactly. Symbolic.”

Jhoanna nodded. “Okay, let’s go with that. We can invite the tricycle drivers’ association there too, para ma-address natin ‘yung transport issues they raised last month.” Someone across the table scribbled it down. The meeting continued, and slowly, Jhoanna found her groove again. Her voice joined in, offering insight on voter turnout projections and the importance of multi-sectoral consultations. She pushed for more youth outreach, suggested town hall formats over generic speeches. She wanted to win. Not for ego. Not for her name. But because this city deserved someone who gave a damn about the ordinary people.

Still, despite the weight of civic duty and the buzz of strategy swirling around her, the space beside her in the room felt empty. She wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia. Or regret. Or just the stubborn presence of Aiah in the corners of her mind.

Aiah had always liked order.

She liked her folders labelled, her schedules tight, her margins clean. But the campaign headquarters her father prepared for her looked more like a battlefield than a workspace.

The office was a vacant room in their house that no one uses. Sleek glass walls, pristine white interiors, and now littered with printouts, charts, and the occasional styro cup of untouched coffee. Her father’s money could fund aesthetics, but it couldn’t fund focus.

“Atty. Arceta,” her campaign strategist called, walking briskly beside her as she stepped into the main room. “We need to finalize your message pillars today. Your father’s already chosen a few angles—”

“Wait,” Aiah cut in, hanging her coat on the back of her chair. “My father’s chosen them?”

“Yes, ma’am. He—uh—briefed the comms team earlier. He wants to emphasize legacy, authority, and discipline. Strength, basically.”

Of course. Legacy. Authority. Discipline. All the words that never belonged to her in the first place. Aiah sat down and opened her tablet. The screen lit up to a blank notes app. It stared back at her like a dare. “Did anyone ask what I want to say?” she asked flatly, not looking up.

Silence.

The strategist, a young man in his early 30s with expensive-looking glasses and a clipboard clutched to his chest, cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am… I thought you and your father—”

“I want my own messaging,” Aiah said, firmer now. “This isn’t his campaign. Ako ‘yung tumatakbo, hindi siya.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am,” the strategist replied, nodding quickly. “We’ll schedule a narrative alignment session. Your voice should lead the story.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms. She hated how her father moved like a shadow, already scripting her moves before she made them. But she hated even more how natural it felt to let him do it. To let someone else chart the direction while she just obeyed. Because she was tired. Because sometimes, letting someone else steer was easier than confronting the memory of why she even wanted this, or who she was doing it for.

Was she doing it for herself? Or was this just another attempt to outrun the ghost of Jhoanna?

Her phone buzzed on the table. A message from her friend, Maloi.

Maloi Ricalde

Saw the news. You and Robles? This is gonna be intense. Let me know if you need help sa PR or like, someone to drink with.

Aiah stared at the message. Typing… then erasing. Typing again. She didn’t reply. Instead, she opened her photo gallery. Scrolled past screenshots of reports, memes, even a blurry selfie Maloi once took of the back of Aiah’s head mid-meeting. Then she found it. A picture taken years ago.

Jhoanna, laughing, holding up a dirty iced coffee with two straws. Aiah was in the background of the photo, mid-smile. They were sitting at a small cafe near her school—one of those rainy day breaks when the city felt distant and love felt safe. She locked her phone. She had no business reopening that chapter. Not now.

“Ma’am?” her strategist asked gently. “Are you okay to start the interview prep?”

“Yeah,” Aiah said. “Let’s do it.”

But the moment she stood, something in her stomach twisted. Because the idea of debating Jhoanna live on television? Of standing across from her, not as a lover or a mistake or a memory—but as a rival? It terrified her. Because beneath the pride, the legacy, and the layers of discipline drilled into her bones—Jhoanna was the one person who ever made her feel soft, and softness had no place in a race like this.

In her office, Jhoanna sat in front of a corkboard cluttered with sticky notes, hand-drawn diagrams, and names of possible barangays to visit. Her mother was by the whiteboard, marker in hand, sketching out a week-by-week plan with the kind of determination only someone who once ran their husband’s campaign could have.

“You need to secure the northern districts first,” her mom said, circling them on the board. “We have allies there. They love your father. You show up, shake hands, smile—tapos na. From there, we go urban core. Doon si Arceta papasok. But we’ll be ready.”

Jhoanna sipped from her lukewarm coffee, nodding absently.

“Anak,” her mom said, turning to face her now. “You okay?”

Jhoanna looked up. “Yeah. Just… pagod lang. We’ve been at this all day.”

Her mom softened. “You’ve been quiet since we started.”

There was no good way to say it. Not when the truth wasn’t about campaign logistics or budget cuts. It was about a face—Aiah’s face—that kept showing up in her mind every time she closed her eyes.

“Do you ever think,” Jhoanna began, voice quieter, “that I’m not doing this for the right reasons?”

Her mother blinked. “What do you mean?”

Jhoanna shrugged. “What if… I’m just running to prove something? To her. To dad. To everyone.”

A long pause, then, her mother sat beside her. “You think your father ran for office out of pure nobility?” she said with a sad smile. “Of course not. He was angry. He wanted change. He wanted to win. But none of that matters if you do the work well.”

Jhoanna looked at her, unsure. Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder. “You care about people. You want to fix things. That’s enough.”

Jhoanna nodded slowly, blinking back the heaviness in her chest. But that night, she cried in the bathroom. She locked the door, sat on the floor tiles cold against her legs, and pressed her face to her knees.

There were days she missed Aiah with the gentleness of longing. But lately? She missed her like a wound.

On the other side of the city, in a larger and more impersonal office bathed in marble and air-conditioning, Aiah was on her third meeting of the day.

Her father stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, glaring at the updated campaign projections like they had personally offended him. “These numbers are embarrassing,” he snapped, slapping the folder shut. “We cannot afford to lose again. We cannot be made fools of. Do you understand that, Maraiah?”

“Yes, I do,” Aiah said, staring straight ahead.

“You don’t act like it,” he growled. “You’ve been slow. Detached. Parang wala kang gana.”

“I’ve been doing everything—”

“You’ve been barely doing enough. If Jhoanna Robles wins, it will be your failure.”

The table fell silent. The campaign team kept their eyes down. And Aiah? She only breathed through her nose and kept her face neutral.

“You are my daughter,” he continued. “You carry my name. You will carry this city when you win, but if you lose…” He leaned forward. “Then you can stop calling yourself an Arceta.”

Her jaw tightened. “Yes, sir,” she said.

And that was that.

Later, in the privacy of her room, she sat at her desk with a laptop open, the white screen of a speech draft waiting. She tried to write about transportation reform. Public housing. Legal access. Real policy stuff.

But the only words that came out were: Jhoanna. Her eyes. Her laugh. She slammed the laptop shut.

The days passed.

In the Robles home, her mother checked and double-checked every donation receipt, every sample flyer design. Jhoanna tried to help, but her focus drifted. One night, she broke down again, this time while writing a platform on good governance.

Her mom walked in quietly, didn’t say anything, just hugged her from behind.

“You can do this,” she whispered into Jhoanna’s hair.

Meanwhile, Aiah’s nights grew colder. Her father’s presence loomed in every meeting, every headline.

She tried to control everything: her tone, her posture, her message. But no amount of posture could silence the voice that whispered you’re only doing this because you still want to matter to her.

And neither of them knew it, but every time they scrolled past each other’s names in news articles, every time their old friends messaged to say “OMG, kayo lang dalawa? What a showdown!”—their hearts beat a little faster.

Not with hatred. Not with pride. But with grief.

Because beneath the strategies and slogans, they were still two girls who once dreamed in the same garden, now on opposite sides of a war they didn’t ask for.

The city was beginning to stir with election fever. Tarpaulins hadn’t been raised yet. No jingles played on the radio. But everyone already knew—it was going to be Robles versus Arceta. Even without formal campaigning, the city had begun to take sides. And in that liminal period—those long weeks of waiting and preparing—both women started to occupy the streets more. Not to campaign. Not officially. But because it was expected. Because it felt necessary. Because politics didn’t stop just because the law said the campaign period hadn’t started.

Jhoanna, true to her character, walked alone. Sometimes it was on her way to a barangay health center to check on a friend’s clinic. Sometimes it was just on the way to buy bread at the local panaderia. Other times, it was simply because she needed to breathe. And each time—each time—people noticed.

“Ma’am Jhoanna!” someone would call out, and she'd turn, smiling like she’d known them all her life. And maybe she had.

The elders shook her hand, clasping it with both of theirs, like she was the hope they'd been waiting for. Street vendors paused mid-transaction just to greet her, saying, “Alam naming ikaw mananalo, ma’am.” Kids, sticky with sweat, would tug at her sleeves just to hug her waist. The tricycle drivers honked in greeting. The sari-sari store owners offered her water. Some asked for selfies, others whispered questions about the road repairs, or the clinic’s lack of medicine. And Jhoanna always listened. Always stopped. Even when her coffee was getting cold in its paper bag.

She never traveled with an entourage. No security. No PA. Just her canvas tote and her ponytail pulled low. It was humility, yes. But it was also armor. It reminded people that she wasn’t a dynasty. She wasn’t untouchable. She was theirs.

Aiah’s appearances on the street painted a different picture. She didn’t like going out, but her father insisted on visibility. And so, with her pressed slacks and blazer—subtle, sleek, and deliberately neutral—she stepped out. Two bodyguards in tow. One always behind, one always at her side. When she walked through the streets, heads still turned—but differently. With curiosity. With hesitation. People glanced and whispered, rarely waved.

“She’s the daughter of that Arceta, right?”

“‘Yung natalo ng tatay ni Jhoanna dati.”

“Ang ganda niya pero parang intimidating.”

“Attorney siya, baka naman may ibabatbat.”

She heard it all. Sometimes it was a faint murmur. Still, she didn’t flinch. She kept walking. She nodded when someone looked at her long enough. Gave the smallest smile when an elderly vendor raised a hand in unsure greeting. She was trying. Even if it didn’t come as easily to her. She visited community centers too. Quietly. Never staying long. She asked questions, wrote notes in her leather-bound planner. She made a point to come prepared, sharp, precise. She didn’t do photo ops. Didn’t offer handshakes unless someone offered first.

Because for now, she didn’t want to be seen as trying to win over the people. Not yet. She wanted to prove something when the time came. That she wasn’t just the daughter of a defeated politician. That she wasn’t just walking in her father’s shadow. No. She was Atty. Maraiah Queen Arceta.

And when the campaign period opened, she was going to show everyone what that meant. But still, beneath the resolve—there was something else.

Every time she passed a bakery and saw the chalkboard sign that read “Robles for Mayor,” her fingers twitched. Every time she heard people talking about Jhoanna’s walkabouts or saw a tricycle driver wearing a Robles ‘25 button before it was even legal to hand them out, her jaw clenched. Not because she envied the attention. But because—deep, deep down—it hurt to see someone once hers so loved by a world that didn’t know the whole story.

Jhoanna saw Aiah too, in those days.

Once outside a municipal library—Aiah stepping out in full black slacks and a crisp blouse, flanked by security. Once in the wet market, Aiah leaving through the back while people stared but didn’t greet. Each time their eyes met, it only lasted a second. Aiah’s gaze unreadable. Jhoanna’s bitter. Neither smiled.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. But they both felt it—the slow, sharp ache of what they used to be, mirrored in every glance.

The calendar shifted.

Two months of murmurs, side-eyes, whispers, handshakes, and planning all led to this—the first day of the official campaign period.

The forum had been announced weeks in advance: a televised event hosted by a major broadcasting network, to be held at the city’s civic center auditorium. The two mayoral candidates would sit beside each other on stage. They’d be asked to explain their platforms. Their visions. Their values. Their promises. And, most inevitably, they would face each other.

Jhoanna’s day started quietly.

The sun peeked through the wooden blinds of her small office-slash-headquarters as the coffee brewed in the machine she kept beside the bookshelf. She had barely touched it. Her nerves were too loud. The outfit was already laid out: a soft blue button-down tucked into high-waisted black slacks, paired with nude flats. Her hair tied into a low ponytail, sharp but approachable. She didn’t want to look like a businesswoman. She wanted to look like someone you could talk to at the sari-sari store.

Her mother called at 5 p.m.

“Hi, anak,” the voice greeted, as calm and soothing as it always had been.

Jhoanna had to sit down the moment she heard it. “Mama…”

“I know, I know. You’re nervous. But I watched you practice. I watched you fight for your advocacies when you were ten. I watched you speak up to a barangay captain when he didn’t want to approve a feeding program. You’ll be fine.”

Jhoanna didn’t answer at first. Then: “You’re not coming, Ma?”

“I can’t, sweetheart. Not in person. But I’ll be watching here with some of the team. They’ll be in the venue to cheer you on. You just have to remember who you are. Don’t memorize anything. Don’t try to sound like a trapo.” Her mother’s voice softened further. “Just speak like Jhoanna. The one who fought for kids with no textbooks. The one who cried over a displaced community. The one who believed in service before ambition.”

Jhoanna closed her eyes. “Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay,” her mother repeated. “You’ve got this. I love you.”

Aiah sat at the dining table, poking at untouched food. The view of the skyline behind her didn’t calm her. Neither did the silence.

Her father entered the room half an hour later, dressed in his usual gray button-up and dark pants, still carrying the air of a former official who never accepted losing. He looked at her outfit—sleek white blouse, black slacks, heels—and gave a short nod of approval. “At least you look like someone who could lead.”

Aiah said nothing. She just sipped her water.

“You’re leaving in twenty minutes?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He reached for his wallet on the counter, not even looking at her as he added, “I’m not watching.”

Aiah blinked. “What?”

“I can’t watch you stumble in front of the entire city,” he muttered with a shrug, as if it were a simple fact. “You better know your numbers. Jhoanna knows how to play people. She plays humble. But she’s dangerous.”

Her jaw tensed. “I studied. I’ve worked on this.”

“Good. Then prove it. Don’t embarrass me.”

Aiah stood abruptly, chair scraping the marble. “I’m not doing this for you,” she snapped.

He looked up, surprised. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not doing this for vengeance. Or redemption. I’m doing this because I care. Because I can fix things. Because people deserve something better than recycled politics and performative charity.”

Silence.

Her father scoffed, almost laughing. “You think this is about ‘caring?’ This is war, Maraiah.”

Aiah turned away. She grabbed her coat and her notes. “I’m going,” she said.

The civic center was buzzing when they arrived, separately, at different entrances. Media vans filled the parking lot. Satellite dishes pointed skyward. Reporters waited like hawks by the security gates, cameras already rolling. The chatter was constant, and the smell of sweat and nerves clung to the humid air.

Jhoanna arrived alone again—save for two members of her campaign team who followed at a respectful distance. She wore no makeup save for powder and lip balm. But her posture was firm. Her gaze steady. When the crowd saw her, applause broke out.

“Mayor Robles!” someone cheered.

She winced, slightly. “Not yet po,” she replied kindly.

The cameras flashed. Mics were shoved toward her.

“Miss Robles, what’s your opening line?”

“Do you plan to address your family’s legacy?”

“Are you expecting to outperform Atty. Arceta?”

She simply smiled. “I’m just here to speak the truth.”

And then she was ushered in.

Aiah entered through the northern hall, flanked by the same two bodyguards. Her eyes scanned the hallway, the tech crew, the TV monitors lining the walls. She hated the fluorescent lights. She hated the buzz of chatter from people who didn’t know her but had already decided who she was.

She didn’t speak to the press. But as she walked past a camera lens, someone hissed: “Ayan na ‘yung anak ni Arceta.” She paused—briefly—but didn’t stop. Not today. She had things to prove. She had memorized every word, every number, every bullet point on her platform. Her plan for local economic reform, her stance on urban housing, her critiques of the city’s transportation system. 

Backstage, the production crew rushed around, testing mics and teleprompters.

The debate host, a seasoned journalist in her fifties, greeted both candidates warmly. She gave brief instructions—time limits, hand signals, live feedback. “You’re both pros. You’ve done bigger things than this,” she said, smiling.

Jhoanna and Aiah stood ten feet apart behind the curtain. Neither spoke. But they both felt the pull—that sharp gravitational tension between former lovers who were now opponents. Who used to whisper dreams in each other’s arms, and were now standing on opposite sides of a platform about to fight for a city.

When the host called five minutes to live air, Jhoanna looked down at her hands. She was shaking. Aiah wasn’t. But her heart? Loud.

“Now,” the host announced, voice clear, “let’s welcome our candidates to the stage.”

A beat of applause. The lights shifted.

Jhoanna stepped out first. Calm, deliberate, no smile yet—but not cold. Her presence was steady. Natural. She walked with her hands clasped in front, in a plain light blue blouse and beige slacks. No frills. Then Aiah. Sharp. Composed. Taller in heels. Her entrance was more commanding, almost icy.

The cheers were slightly louder for Jhoanna—but it wasn’t a landslide.

They took their seats opposite each other, two tables apart. Two microphones. Two pitchers of water. Two bottled personas.

The host began: “Let’s start by allowing our candidates to introduce themselves. Ms. Robles, the floor is yours.” Jhoanna nodded. She stood, exhaled slowly.

“Good evening po sa inyong lahat. I’m Jhoanna Christine Robles. I’m a public administration graduate from the University of the Philippines. I’ve worked for NGOs, policy research units, and grassroots development projects since I graduated. I’m running for mayor not because of a name or a family legacy, but because I believe in public service that is truly public. I want to build a city where people don’t have to beg for dignity.”

Polite applause.

Then Aiah stood. “Good evening. I’m Atty. Maraiah Queen Arceta. I graduated from the UP College of Law and served under several public legal aid initiatives before entering private practice. My campaign is focused on institutional reform, economic development, and transparency. I believe that good governance means competence, not just kindness.”

A slightly smaller applause—but only slightly.

They sat again. The questions began. Each candidate sat straight, eyes locked forward. But everyone watching could feel it: a current of heat between them. One that was about to flare.

Moderator speaks into his mic, “Let’s begin with something both aspirational and practical. What are your concrete plans for your first 100 days in office?”

Aiah was the first to respond. She leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp, voice crisp, “On Day One, I will immediately conduct a performance audit of every department under city hall. I’ll establish a transition team composed of private-sector experts, LGU veterans, and legal advisors to dismantle any corruption networks embedded in procurement or permitting processes. Within the first hundred days, I want an updated city development plan, grounded in facts and long-term economic forecasting. Hindi pwedeng bara-bara. Hindi tayo charity, gobyerno tayo.”

Scattered applause. Someone in the crowd said, “Yes, ma’am!”

Jhoanna gave a tight smile. Then stood, “You know what I’ll do on Day One? I’ll visit every district health center in this city. Not with a camera crew. Just me, and the people who know what’s wrong. The next hundred days? I’ll prioritize community-based solutions, because real reform doesn’t come from top-down blueprints made in airconditioned rooms. Reform starts with listening. Kasi hindi lang ito numbers game, it’s about lives. And hindi mo ma-so-solve ang corruption if you think everyone on the ground is incompetent.”

The crowd stirred. Some clapped. Aiah’s eyes narrowed. “With all due respect, we need blueprints. Emotions won’t fix infrastructure. Your ‘community-based’ approach is idealistic, but where’s the policy depth?”

Jhoanna stepped forward slightly, “You want policy depth? I’ve worked on ordinances adopted by three LGUs. I’ve written frameworks on sustainable transport for DILG pilot cities. Don’t you dare call it ‘idealistic’ just because it doesn’t sound like a courtroom speech.”

Gasps rippled across the crowd. The host raised a hand, but didn’t stop them. “Let’s proceed—next topic: healthcare. How will you improve healthcare services in underserved barangays?”

Jhoanna answered immediately, firm. “We’ll increase the local health budget by at least 20% by reallocating funds from overpriced vanity infrastructure. We’ll hire more community health workers, pay them well, and provide mobile clinics in rural barangays. Hindi kailangan ng bagong hospital agad—kailangan muna ng doctors, ng gamot, ng respeto sa mga nurse.”

Aiah answers calmly, but louder. “And how do you plan to pay for that? Kasi kung puro reallocation lang, you’re pretending na walang problema sa revenue collection. My healthcare plan includes a new sin tax ordinance specific to luxury goods in our city, with earmarks legally binding for healthcare spending. Real solutions take courage. Hindi lang fundraising.”

Jhoanna almost scoffed, “Courage? Alam mo ba na ‘yang tatay mo mismo ang bumoto laban sa ganitong ordinance dati?”

Aiah froze. The moderator looked alarmed. “Let’s—uh, let’s stick to the candidates’ own platforms.”

“I am not my father. That’s the difference between us. You act like you’re some martyr crusader when in truth, you still operate under the shadow of your last name. You think walking alone in the streets makes you ‘authentic’? This isn’t a movie, Ms. Robles.”

Applause erupted. Students cheered. Cameras panned. Someone from the civic group raised a fist in the back. The host cleared their throat. “Let’s move to housing. What is your plan to address the worsening urban housing crisis?”

Aiah stood up again, “We need to pass an inclusive zoning ordinance. The city’s housing backlog is tied to poor land use planning. Developers will be mandated to build a certain percentage of affordable units in exchange for permits. We’ll provide rent-to-own schemes for low-income families. Hindi pwedeng paasa lang—kailangan may ownership.”

Jhoanna raised an eyebrow, “And where will those units go? Sa tabi ng mga basurahan? Sa likod ng mall? Kasi ‘yan ang nangyari sa ibang cities with those schemes. You say ‘inclusive’ pero ang design palaging pang-burgis. We will prioritize in-city relocation, not dumping families to far-off sites with no transport, no jobs, no schools.”

Aiah snaps, “Then fix the transport too! Kaya nga may integrated planning. You can’t fix housing in isolation—”

Jhoanna cuts her off, “Then maybe stop treating poor people like numbers in your spreadsheets!”

A brief pause. The crowd went silent. Aiah stared at her. Her fists clenched for a moment. Then she turned to the audience. “I didn’t go into public service to win arguments. I’m here to fix a broken system. And I will—whether or not you believe in how I do it.” That hit a different nerve. Some people clapped. Others murmured.

The moderator spoke up again. “On poverty—how do you plan to reduce it locally?”

Jhoanna speaks first, “Poverty reduction is not one project. It’s interconnected. First, we launch barangay livelihood grants with training and capital. Second, restructure education support for senior high and college students. Third, rework the city’s public feeding program into an integrated food sovereignty model, sourcing directly from our farmers.”

“We build industrial partnerships to give locals employment at higher wages. Poverty is about income, not just aid. With my background in corporate law, I can write those partnerships into binding agreements. Walang lip service—may labor protection, may enforceable contracts.” Aiah spoke up almost immediately.

“So your solution is to get corporations to save us?”

“No. My solution is to make them pay.”

Another murmur. Another flash of eyes across the stage.

“Last question—political dynasties. Do you support banning them?”

Jhoanna took the mic immediately, “Yes. I support the anti-dynasty provision that’s been delayed in Congress. Because no matter how well-intentioned, dynasty breeds entitlement. Public service must be earned. Not inherited.” She didn’t look at Aiah—but the implication hung heavy.

Aiah stood slowly, “I’m the only lawyer in my family. My father may be a former official, but I passed the bar. I built my practice. If anyone thinks I’m just my surname—prove it. Come at me on competence. Not bloodlines.” Their eyes finally met again. Fire meeting fire, and neither one looked away. A pause. Then a smirk. “And maybe we should ask if the same can be said for others on this stage.”

Jhoanna’s face hardened. “You’re right, Atty. Arceta. My father was elected. But I never used his network, his money, or his name. I built my campaign from scratch. My advocacy started long before this election.” Her voice rose again, eyes burning. “And the fact that you’re here, representing a family that still sees this city as a trophy to reclaim, proves that dynasties aren’t about blood. They’re about entitlement.”

Applause. Louder now. Murmurs of “That’s true!” from the crowd.

Aiah’s jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask to be born an Arceta. But I’m here to prove I’m more than that. I will not apologize for being capable.”

“You should apologize for pretending to be independent while running from your father’s shadow,” Jhoanna said coldly.

They were both standing now. Tense. Alive. Furious.

The moderator quickly stepped in. “Thank you. That concludes the open forum. We now invite our candidates to give their closing remarks—”

But the crowd was already electric. Because in just under two hours, they had witnessed not just a debate between candidates—they had witnessed a collision of two lives, two histories, two futures, and no one was walking away the same.

As soon as the broadcast ended, households across the city lit up with movement. In neighborhoods where sari-sari stores doubled as community tambayan spots, folding chairs were pulled out from under bamboo tables, kalderos set aside, and the forums that took place on screen continued—this time with live commentary.

“Grabe, si Jhoanna ‘no? Hindi talaga nagpapatalo!” someone shouted from across a fence.

“Nakakatuwa siya, hindi siya nanginginig kahit pinatamaan na siya!” a tricycle driver added, wiping sweat off his brow as he leaned on the hood of his vehicle.

From houses where people had watched with bated breath and bated hearts, viewers spilled onto the streets, neighbors gathering in groups like old-style baranggay meetings, voices rising in equal parts admiration and chismis. Teenagers on their phones were already showing clips they had recorded from the TV.

“Hoy, nakita niyo ‘yung sinabi ni Jhoanna about poverty? Galing no’n!”

“Ate, wait lang, wait lang—replay ko ‘yung video! Nakita mo ‘yung face ni Arceta? Lutang siya do’n, e!”

Meanwhile, the elderly nodded sagely, as if this night had validated their trust in Jhoanna since the days she helped organize relief drives during floods. But not all were Team Jhoanna.

“Si Atty. Arceta, matalino naman. Kita mo ‘yung points niya about systems and institutional reform? May laman din sinabi niya,” one man countered, arms crossed, a hint of pride in his voice. “Baka naman kayo nabubulag lang kasi anak ni Congressman Robles si Jhoanna.”

“Tsk,” his wife cut in, “Kahit anak siya, kita mo sa kaniya  na galing sa puso ‘yung sinasabi. Si Aiah, parang presentation sa law school.”

Their neighbors nodded, muttered, debated. And so it went. Across the city, the streets became an open forum of their own, full of noise and nuance, memory and myth.

Online, it was chaos. Within thirty minutes, Twitter was ablaze.

Trending in Philippines

#JhoannaRobles

#AttyArceta

#RoblesVsArceta

 

People were screen-recording, live tweeting, pulling quotes from the debate like it was a drama series.

A now-viral tweet read:

“Not Jhoanna saying ‘I built my campaign from scratch. My advocacy started long before this election’ and then breathing fire like a dragon of justice—MA’AM I’M VOTING.”

Another one, with a freeze-frame of Aiah raising her eyebrow, captioned:

“Atty. Arceta looking like she’s one political dynasty accusation away from suing someone. Queen behavior.”

Facebook exploded, too. Public pages shared livestream snippets, while local meme pages started posting edits of the two candidates, complete with mock NBA-style “head-to-head” stats, faceoff posters, and even fake “Who’s your mayor?” Buzzfeed-style quizzes. Instagram reels? Flooded. TikTok? Worse. Edits of the debate were remixed with dramatic music, commentary from law students, and even anime fight music.

At the venue, as soon as the lights dimmed and the stage began to empty, press members swarmed both exits like bees on a mission. Cameras blinked, microphones shot upward, and flashes bathed the lobby in white bursts. Two members of Jhoanna’s team who were with her, did what they could to shield her from the commotion.

She kept her eyes down, polite but firm, as journalists clamored.

“Ms. Jhoanna! Just one question about the dynasty issue—”

“How do you feel about Atty. Arceta’s comments—”

“Do you believe you won the debate tonight?”

She didn’t respond. Her only reply was the sound of her heels against the tiled floor, echoing toward the parking area where a familiar silver van awaited. The passenger door swung open.

“Ma’am,” said Kuya Elmer from the driver’s seat. “Pasok po.”

She climbed in, slammed the door shut just as another flash snapped against the glass. They pulled out of the driveway, silence filling the car. Then, Kuya Elmer cleared his throat. “Ma’am Jhoanna,” he said, eyes still on the road, “Ang angas niyo po kanina. Promise. Muntik na ‘kong sumigaw rito sa loob ng kotse habang pinapanood kita sa livestream habang naghihintay dito.”

Jhoanna let out a weak laugh, forehead resting on the window. “Kuya, grabe ka naman. I just said what I needed to say.”

“No, Ma’am. You said what everyone needed to hear. Seryoso ‘to—ibang klase ka kanina. Wala kang takot. ‘Yun lang ang masasabi ko.”

Jhoanna exhaled deeply, her heart still racing. “I was shaking the whole time.”

“Hindi halata, Ma’am. Swabe. Lutang si Atty. Arceta sa mga sinasabi mo, e.”

She gave a tired smile. “Let’s just go home.”

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the venue, Aiah tried her best to exit through the side hallway. She had hoped she could slip away quickly, but the moment she stepped into the corridor, cameras were waiting.

“Atty. Arceta! Your thoughts on Ms. Robles’ housing remarks?”

“Do you believe the voters will resonate with your emphasis on system reform?”

“Is it personal between you and Ms. Robles?”

She forced a half-smile, raising her hand for calm. “I’ll take three questions. That’s all.” She answered briskly.

“I respect Ms. Robles’ passion, but I believe policy must be grounded in feasibility. Emotion can inspire, but systems must deliver.”

Another reporter asked, “Do you think the two of you represent different generations of politics?”

She paused, slightly caught off guard. “We represent different approaches, yes. But at the end of the day, I think both of us want what’s best for the city—even if we disagree on how to get there.”

And with that, she nodded curtly and signaled to her bodyguards. As they walked her to the car—a black SUV parked in the loading area—her head bowed slightly, as if the weight of the night had finally settled on her shoulders. Once inside the vehicle, she leaned back, eyes shut, not saying a word.

The bodyguard in the passenger seat turned around and handed her her phone. “Ma’am,” he said gently, “Your father told us to remind you to call him. He wants to know how the forum went.”

Aiah opened her eyes, took the phone, looked at the notification of his missed calls and texts. She scoffed. Silent but sharp. She tossed the phone onto the seat beside her, looked out the window, and said, “Let’s go.”

When Aiah arrived home, the front door closed behind her with a dull, empty thud. The grand living room of the Arceta residence—cool, pristine, quiet—offered no congratulations. No flowers. No “You did great.” Only the low hum of the air conditioning and the soft ticking of the antique clock above the console table. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor, her body heavy, her breath shallow. Her two bodyguards exchanged glances and respectfully retreated to the guest area. They knew better than to say anything. She didn’t even look at her phone. She knew there were texts. Missed calls. Notifications flooding in like waves pounding relentlessly at the shore. Her father had probably called three, maybe five times by now, depending on how badly he thought she fumbled. There were likely messages from her team, screenshots from Twitter, photos from the press. But she didn't want to see any of it.

She went straight upstairs, shrugging off her blazer halfway through the hallway. By the time she reached her room, she was already tugging her hair out of its bun. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and the silence of her room swallowed her whole. She dropped the blazer on the chair. Kicked her shoes off. Didn't even change out of her inner blouse and slacks. She just walked straight to her bed and collapsed into it, arms splayed, eyes open, staring up at the white ceiling like it could somehow answer the question that kept tightening in her chest.

Was this even worth it?

For months, she told herself that she was doing this to prove something. Not just to her father. Not just to the Arceta name. But to herself. That she was strong. That she was capable. That she could be more than just the shadow of a man who failed, the daughter of a politician who was mocked out of office. But now… Now all she could think of was how Jhoanna stood on that stage. She had watched her like someone watching a slow sunrise through thick glass—painful, beautiful, impossible to stop. The moment their back-and-forth heated up, Aiah saw it clearly: Jhoanna had not changed. Or rather, she had grown—sharpened. Hardened. Wiser. The fire that once made Aiah fall for her during late-night debates and school forums was still there, only now it burned steadier. Fiercer.

Aiah had thrown her best punches. Policy, structure, legality. But Jhoanna didn’t flinch. She didn’t back down. She stood there, eyes glowing like they held the hopes of a thousand people, and answered every shot with the full weight of someone who knew the pain of the people she was trying to serve. Aiah blinked. Her eyes stung. She turned on her side, pulled her blanket loosely over her waist, and curled slightly into herself.

This wasn’t part of the plan. She was supposed to dominate that forum with logic and structure. Not get rattled by the ghost of someone she still loved in ways she didn’t want to admit. Not get shaken by the way Jhoanna looked at her—not with hate, not with contempt, but with fire. Like she was fighting for something bigger than revenge. Bigger than politics. For a split second on stage, when their eyes locked after the political dynasty question, Aiah swore she saw it. That same flicker of something soft, something unresolved, buried under years of distance and anger and ambition, and it had broken her a little.

She clenched the pillow, pressing it close to her chest. For a woman so used to control—used to leading case reviews, client meetings, courtroom simulations—it was terrifying to realize she had no script for this. For her.

How do you campaign against someone who still holds a piece of your heart?

She had spent the last year preparing for this. Reading budget reports, practicing speeches, consulting with former officials, memorizing city ordinances. She knew the loopholes. The systems. The framework. But she didn’t prepare for Jhoanna—not like this. Not the real her. Not the one who fought for the people like her soul depended on it. Aiah closed her eyes. She remembered the old Jhoanna. The one who used to write poetic editorials about barangay elections. The one who would get angry over a misused LGU fund like it was a personal betrayal. The one who, during college, once skipped an org meeting because she found a fire victim sleeping outside City Hall and stayed to help them find shelter.

That Jhoanna. That stubborn, stubborn girl with messy notes and big dreams and too much heart. She thought the years would’ve worn that out of her. But now, here she was—back, braver, burning brighter. Aiah sighed, and for the first time in months, her armor cracked just a little. Maybe this was the first real crack in everything her father built up around her. The structure. The pressure. The legacy. She wasn’t just going up against a name, a platform, or a face.

She was going up against Jhoanna—the girl she once loved, the girl she left, the girl who never stopped caring, and now… the girl who might win.

A faint knock sounded at her door. A yaya’s voice followed, gentle and unsure. “Ma’am Aiah, may pagkain po sa baba. Baka gusto niyo pong kumain.”

She didn’t answer. After a few seconds, the sound of soft footsteps retreated, and she was alone again. Staring at the ceiling, her heart aching—not with defeat, not with resentment, but with something far more complicated.

The city was alive outside the car window—horns honking, vendors still pushing their carts into side streets, homes lit in warm, flickering amber as families gathered around televisions, still buzzing from the debate. But inside the car, the world was still. Silent, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional vibration of Jhoanna’s phone in her lap, notifications piling up like a storm she had no energy to weather just yet.

Kuya Elmer glanced at her from the rearview mirror but didn’t say anything. He knew better than to force conversation. Instead, he drove them steadily through the winding streets back toward her place, leaving the buzz of the forum behind. When they reached home, she thanked him with a tired smile, stepped out, and made her way up to her room without even glancing at the news alerts still pouring in.

She had changed into a large shirt and loose pants before finally picking up her phone again, this time with intention. She went straight to her call logs and tapped the most recent outgoing call. It didn’t even ring twice.

“Anak!” her mom greeted her, voice immediately warm and alive. “Oh my God. You were so good.”

Jhoanna leaned back against her headboard, smiling faintly. “You think?”

“Think?” her mom scoffed. “Jho, you were incredible. That answer about healthcare? That hit. Your tone, your fire, your poise—you looked like a real public servant. Not a politician, a servant. That’s what this city needs.”

Her throat tightened, unexpectedly. She swallowed.

“Thanks, Ma,” she whispered. “I just… I didn’t know it would feel that intense.”

“Well,” her mom chuckled gently, “It’s not easy when you’re facing your ex on stage, isn’t it?”

Jhoanna let out a dry laugh. “You noticed.”

“Everyone noticed.”

“Anak,” her mom said, gentler now. “You know I love you. I saw your face. You were brilliant up there, but I saw it. She rattled you.”

Jhoanna rubbed her eyes. “It’s just weird, Ma. Seeing her again like that. In that setting. After everything.”

“Of course it is,” her mom said, patient as always. “You loved her.”

Jhoanna stayed quiet.

“She was a big part of your life. I understand that. But anak…” Her voice lowered, serious now. “You’re running for mayor. And so is she. You can’t go soft on her just because she once made your heart skip.”

“I know,” Jhoanna murmured.

“No, listen to me. You’re not just up there for your heart. You’re up there for the tricycle drivers you interviewed last year. For the seniors who can’t afford their meds. For the kids running around barefoot who still smile at you when you visit. This campaign isn’t about what you feel for her—it’s about them.”

Jhoanna nodded, her hand curling lightly around her phone. “It’s just hard, Ma.”

“I know,” her mother replied softly. “But you’ve been through worse, haven’t you? You got through heartbreak before. You got through graduation while grieving your father. You got through nights of crying because you didn’t think you were enough for her.”

Her throat tightened again.

“And now?” her mom continued. “Now you are more than enough. You’re brilliant. Brave. Principled. And you’re running for mayor because you want to make this place better, not because someone pushed you into it. She can’t say the same.”

Jhoanna exhaled. “Do you think I can win?”

Her mom paused for a heartbeat before replying. “Anak, you can easily defeat her.”

Jhoanna blinked at that. It didn’t feel easy. Not at all. Not when her heart twisted every time she remembered how Aiah looked at her—challenged her—not with cruelty, but with something complex. Pride? Regret? Familiarity? She couldn’t tell anymore.

“But I don’t want this to be about defeating her,” Jhoanna said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just want to serve. I just want to do this right.”

“And you will,” her mom said. “But doing it right means standing firm—even against the people we once loved.”

Jhoanna’s eyes wandered to the curtain swaying slightly beside her bed, pulled by the breeze of the electric fan. She remembered the moment Aiah raised her voice. How her voice cracked, ever so slightly, like she was trying to hold back something. She remembered the flash in her eyes when she brought up political dynasties—how personal it all got. It wasn’t just politics. It was them.

“Anak?”

“I’m here,” Jhoanna said. “Just thinking.”

“Alright,” her mom said. “Don’t forget to eat, ha? Don’t let stress swallow you. And if you need anything, I’m always just one call away.”

“I know, Ma. Thank you.”

“Rest, anak. You did more than good today. You made me proud.”

Jhoanna smiled faintly. “Love you, Ma.”

“Love you more.”

She ended the call and stared at her ceiling for a while, the phone still in her hand. Her heart was pounding softly, a low ache building beneath her ribs. She thought about how Aiah looked after the forum—tense, cornered, trying to stay composed. She thought about what her mom said—You can easily defeat her. But even now, with her mother’s pride still ringing in her ears, the idea of defeating Aiah didn’t sit right with her. Because somewhere in her heart, where no campaign could reach, she still saw Aiah not as her rival, not as a dynasty’s daughter, but as the girl who once whispered legal jargon into her ear and smiled like no one else mattered.

And tonight, Jhoanna knew: this election was going to be harder than anything she’d ever done—not because of policies or pressure or politics—but because of love.

The sun had barely lifted its full weight over the skyline when the knocks came—not the courteous kind, not the gentle kind, but the kind that announced themselves like a drumbeat to a war nobody signed up for. Three loud raps against the door of Aiah’s house. She was in the middle of fixing the cuff on her sleeve, hair half-tied, still barefoot. Her morning coffee sat cold on the dining table. Her campaign staff were supposed to pick her up in an hour for a whole day of barangay visits across the southern district—mostly residential zones, many lower-income, where she knew she had the hardest ground to cover.

She already wasn’t in the mood for this day. But the moment she opened the door and saw the stone-faced man standing in the hallway, the morning managed to grow even heavier. “Dad,” she said, brows drawing together.

“Maraiah,” he said sharply, his tone formal, like he was about to deliver a closing argument in a courtroom. She stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in. He didn’t wait for an invitation.

“I watched the whole thing,” he said, marching into her living room like it was his own. “The forum.”

Aiah closed the door behind them. “I figured.”

He turned to face her. His tie was already on, hair combed back to perfection, every line on his face taut with expectation and disappointment.

“And yet, I never got a call. Not a text. Nothing.” His eyes narrowed. “Was it because you embarrassed yourself to thousands of people?”

The words hit sharper than he probably intended. Or maybe he did intend them to hurt. Aiah’s jaw clenched. She took a long breath, standing her ground near the dining table, arms folding tightly across her chest. “I didn’t message because I was tired, Dad. Too tired to even look at my phone.”

“That tired?” he asked, scoffing. “Tired from what? From being outshined by a Robles?”

“Don’t do this,” she said, her voice low.

“Oh, I will,” he shot back, stepping forward. “Because that girl—that woman—stood on that stage and made it look like you’ve never read a single page of the Revised Penal Code. She ran circles around you, Maraiah. And don’t tell me you didn’t feel it.”

“I know what happened,” she snapped, finally raising her voice. “You don’t have to narrate it to me like it’s part of your damn legal briefs.”

He stared at her, jaw tightening. Aiah forced her arms down, fingers shaking slightly as she gathered herself. “I’m doing the best I can. But you—you weren’t there. You don’t get to just show up and act like you know what it felt like up there.”

“What I know is that your opponent is a Robles, and I know how easy it is for their kind to smile their way into people’s hearts while we do the hard, ugly work.” His voice cracked slightly—not from emotion, but from intensity. “You don’t have the luxury to go soft, Maraiah. Not in this election.”

Aiah ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “I’m not going soft. God. Why does everyone think I’m going soft just because I—” She cut herself off, biting back the words.

Just because I loved her.

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Because you what?”

“Nothing,” she said firmly.

He stared at her for a long moment, then took a breath, calming his tone. “Look, we can’t afford to lose again. You know what that would mean for me. For our name. That family has humiliated us before—your opponent’s father made sure of it. That won’t happen again.”

She exhaled and turned away, trying to get her bearings, her heart thudding in her chest.

“And that’s why,” he continued, “I’m coming with you today. Barangay to barangay.”

Aiah froze. She turned back around slowly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“No,” she said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re still under my team. I funded most of this campaign—”

“And I didn’t ask you to!” Her voice cracked, her temper breaking through now. “You think just because you wrote checks and pulled favors, you own this whole thing? You don’t own me, Dad.”

He looked at her like she’d grown horns. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I do. I hear myself every day when I rehearse lines that don’t even feel like mine anymore. I see it when I stand in front of crowds and watch people whisper about who my father is instead of listening to what I say. I see it when I walk into the street and they call me anak ni Arceta instead of Atty. Aiah .”

The silence after that was deafening. Even the old wall clock on the far end of the room seemed louder.

“I don’t want you there,” she said, breathless. “Not because I’m ashamed. But because I know what’s going to happen.”

“What?” he asked, trying to maintain composure.

“You’re going to talk. You’re going to inject your voice into mine. You’re going to treat the people like they’re your jury and you’re going to embarrass yourself—and me. Because these people? They remember. They remember the arrogance. The entitlement. And I won’t have that near me when I’m trying to convince them I’m different.”

“You’re nothing without my name,” he said, low and cruel.

And for the first time, Aiah stepped forward, closer than before. “Then maybe it’s time I lose it.”

He didn’t reply to that. Instead, he simply scoffed again, turned his back to her, and started toward the door. “If you want to lose,” he muttered, “then go ahead. But don’t come running to me when you do.”

He slammed the door as he left. Aiah stood there in the hallway, the echo of the door still ringing in her ears. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she didn’t let them. She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Instead, she picked up her bag, her campaign folder, her list of barangays for the day. She took one last look at her cold coffee, untouched, then walked out the door without taking a sip. She didn’t need caffeine. She needed space, and a chance to prove—maybe to him, maybe to herself—that she was more than anyone’s daughter. She was her own name. Her own woman, and she was going to win this her way.

The heat was relentless by the time Aiah stepped out of the van, the soles of her flats already feeling the slow burn from the pavement. She squinted under the harsh glare of the late morning sun as the first barangay of the day came into view—Barangay Sta. Mercedes, a dense urban zone known for its narrow alleys, tangled electrical wires, and sari-sari stores lined one after another like patched-up promises. It was a place she’d been to before, back when she was in law school doing volunteer work with a legal aid group. But now, the eyes on her were different. Not just curious. Not just hopeful. Some were doubtful. Some were cold.

She adjusted the sleeves of her cream-colored blouse, dusted off her slacks, and gave her campaign team a silent nod. Her two bodyguards remained close, discreet but visible. She hated the idea of being flanked like some unreachable politician—but her father insisted, and for now, it helped with safety.

A staff member handed her a small handheld mic connected to a portable speaker one of the aides carried behind her. “Atty. Aiah, okay na po sa covered court. Barangay officials and residents are ready.”

Aiah nodded and took a slow breath before stepping onto the uneven path toward the covered court. As she walked, she offered polite nods to people along the way—elderly residents sitting in monoblock chairs, mothers tending to children, tricycle drivers leaning against their parked units. Some smiled. Some gave her tight-lipped glances. A few avoided her eyes entirely. She knew why. The shadow of her father’s legacy lingered like smog in every street.

At the covered court, at least fifty or sixty people were gathered—local volunteers, residents, barangay officials. The barangay captain stood up to introduce her, microphone in hand, voice echoing awkwardly across the low tin roofing.

“Magandang tanghali po. Narito po si Atty. Maraiah Queen Arceta, isa sa mga mayoralty candidates ngayong eleksyon. Pakinggan po natin siya.”

Muted applause followed. Aiah stepped forward, her heart thrumming like a drumline beneath her skin. She didn’t need to look at her notes. She had memorized every bullet point in her opening speech. But she also knew this wasn’t about technicals. This wasn’t law school. This was the real world.

“Magandang tanghali po sa inyong lahat,” she began, her voice loud, clear, and careful not to sound too polished. “Ako po si Maraiah Queen Arceta—pero pwede rin ninyo po ako tawagin bilang Aiah. Isa po akong abogada, pero higit sa lahat, nais ko rin pong magsilbi para sa lungsod na ito. Hindi bilang anak ni kung sino man. Kundi bilang ako.”

Some people raised their brows, as if testing the sincerity behind her words. Others looked like they weren’t used to hearing her speak in Tagalog. She knew her conyo upbringing and elite background was something she’d need to bridge. So she leaned in.

“I’ve been here before,” she continued, walking slowly as she spoke. “Hindi pa ako tumatakbo noon. Volunteer lawyer lang ako. May mga lumapit sakin tungkol sa karapatan sa trabaho, sa karahasan sa tahanan, at sa mga cases na hindi inaasikaso dahil walang silang pambayad. Kaya po ako nandito ngayon. Dahil nakita ko na kailangan ng pagbabago. Hindi lang ‘yung magaling magsalita, kundi marunong din makinig.” She paused. That line was for herself as much as it was for them.

In the open forum after her speech, a woman stood up. Middle-aged, tired eyes, calloused hands. “Ano po plano n’yo sa unang 100 days, Atty. Aiah? Puro plano lang kasi naririnig namin, e.”

Aiah smiled lightly and nodded. “Tama po kayo. Kaya ito ang konkretong gagawin ko. Sa unang 100 araw, magpapatayo tayo ng tatlong bagong health stations sa mga barangay na pinaka walang access sa doktor at gamot. Tapos, maglalabas tayo ng emergency livelihood program para sa mga nawalan ng hanapbuhay, lalo na ‘yung mga senior na wala na ring makuhang trabaho. Hindi ito pangako lang. May budget breakdown na kami for that.” The woman didn’t smile, but she nodded.

Another hand rose. This time, a young man in a basketball jersey and slippers. “Ma’am, to be honest lang ha. Hindi po ba kayo galing sa dinastiya? Tatay niyo po, dati ring tumakbo. Tapos ngayon, kayo naman?” There was a beat of silence. A tense shift in the crowd.

Aiah took a breath. “Salamat sa tanong na ‘yan,” she said slowly. “Alam kong hindi lahat ng tanong madali, pero kailangan sagutin.” She looked the man in the eye. “Oo, ang tatay ko ay dati ring politiko. Pero ako, hindi ako tatakbo para ipagpatuloy ang pangalan niya. Tatakbo ako para buwagin ang ideya na lahat ng galing sa pamilya ng politiko ay pareho. Gusto kong patunayan na may anak ng dating politiko na hindi sakim, hindi bulag sa hirap ng tao, at handang itama ang mga pagkukulang ng nakaraan—even if it means disagreeing with my own father.”

The room was still, and then, slowly, a few people clapped. It wasn’t thunderous. But it was real.

Her day continued across two more barangays. In Barangay La Purísima, she was offered a seat inside a cramped barangay hall where she was grilled by senior citizens about delayed pension distributions and high medication costs. She explained her legal background and her plans for strengthening social service systems—how she’d partner with both local clinics and NGOs to establish community-based medicine banks.

In Barangay Matatag, a group of youth leaders challenged her about education and internet access. She proposed a plan for establishing solar-powered study hubs in each barangay with free Wi-Fi and volunteer tutors. At every stop, she shook hands. Smiled when appropriate. Joked with the kids who ran up to her with awkward drawings and asked her if she was “the lawyer girl on TV.” But behind the smiles, her exhaustion was mounting. Not just physically—but emotionally. Because at every corner, someone would inevitably mention Jhoanna.

“Mabait rin yung isa ah… si Robles.”

“Nakita namin debate. Ang galing nung kalaban mo…”

“She reminds us of her dad. Magaling ‘yon.”

And Aiah would just nod, lips pressing tightly. She knew. She saw it too. By the time she got back into the van past sunset, her blouse was clinging to her back, hair loosened from its pins, throat dry despite the constant water breaks. She collapsed into the back seat, watching the orange sky fade into blue through the window, and there it was again. Jhoanna, lingering in her thoughts like an ache that wouldn’t heal. The look in her eyes during the forum. The defiance. The conviction. And the unbearable truth Aiah had been trying to drown all day—She still cared. God, she still cared. Even when she shouldn’t.

Jhoanna’s day, on the other hand, began before sunrise. By 4:30 a.m., she was already sipping lukewarm coffee from a stainless steel tumbler while reviewing the final itinerary her campaign secretary sent over the night before. She was dressed in a simple white polo tucked into straight-cut jeans, the sleeves rolled neatly above her elbows. Her hair was tied into a clean ponytail. No flashy colors. No fancy logo pins. Just her name stitched on the left pocket of her shirt in navy thread.

Her mornings were always like this now: quiet, disciplined, personal.

By 5:00 a.m., she was out of the house, walking briskly through their neighborhood without any security, only a canvas tote bag over her shoulder and a clipboard in hand. She liked to be on the streets early. She liked seeing the city before it fully woke up—street sweepers with their neon vests, taho vendors calling out in singsong tones, dogs barking at tricycles lazily starting their engines. She stopped by a carinderia near the terminal to buy breakfast for her volunteers before heading to the day’s first barangay: Barangay Maligaya.

It was one of the older, quieter barangays—populated mostly by retirees, public school teachers, and families who’d lived in the same homes for decades. When her group of volunteers arrived with flyers and clipboards, there was no grand announcement, no blaring campaign jingle. Just Jhoanna walking from house to house, knocking gently, and introducing herself with the same sincere rhythm she always had.

“Magandang umaga po, ako po si Jhoanna Robles. Tumatakbo po ako bilang mayor ng lungsod. Pwede ko po ba kayong makausap sandali?”

People opened their gates. Some, wide-eyed, said: “Uy, ikaw ‘yung sa forum ah! Grabe ‘yung sagutan niyo nung isa!”

She would just smile, almost shyly. “Seryoso lang po talaga sa trabaho. Pero salamat po sa panonood.”

In one home, a retired public school teacher named Mrs. Fely offered her coffee and asked to see her platform. Jhoanna handed over a stapled document, meticulously drafted with no vague slogans—only tangible goals and costed programs. Her favorite one was underlined in green: Barangay-based Learning Resource Centers. She talked about it often.

“‘Yung goal po natin is simple, kahit hindi makapunta sa library ang bata, ‘yung library ang pupunta sa kaniya. May modules, may storybooks, may volunteer tutors, at internet access.”

Mrs. Fely was impressed. She promised to tell her entire senior yoga class about Jhoanna that weekend.

From there, Jhoanna moved to the barangay basketball court where kids were playing before school. Some stopped and stared when they recognized her. One little girl—about seven years old, ponytailed and holding a worn-out notebook—ran toward her and asked: “Ate, ikaw po ba ‘yung sumigaw sa TV kagabi?” Jhoanna crouched down, laughing. “Medyo sumigaw pala ako, ‘no? Pero mabait ako, promise.” The kids giggled, and she gave them each a sticker from her tote bag that read “Para sa Bayan, Hindi sa Iilan.”

By mid-morning, her team had covered almost a hundred homes in Maligaya. No press. No photographers. Just volunteers with clipboards and handwritten notes from conversations. She then headed to Barangay San Andres, a crowded urban barangay riddled with flooding issues and cramped alleyways. It wasn’t campaign-friendly terrain. You had to walk through narrow eskinita, sidestep laundry lines, greet idle dogs, and endure the intense humidity trapped between concrete walls. But this was where she felt most needed.

She sat down on a plastic stool across from a group of construction workers on lunch break. They asked about wages, unsafe work conditions, and local hiring practices. She took out her notebook and scribbled, even when they cursed about corruption and past promises broken. “Ako po mismo, hindi papayag na sa siyudad natin, may skilled worker na walang trabaho habang may project na subcontracted pa sa taga-labas. Dapat local priority. May plano po ako for a labor audit program—publicly reported, barangay-based.”

They nodded. They didn’t clap. But one of them fist-bumped her before she left. “‘Yan ang gusto naming mayor.”

At noon, she sat on the edge of a sidewalk to eat lunch—rice and lumpiang togue wrapped in banana leaf, which a resident handed her. She didn’t eat in cars. She didn’t like tinted windows. Jhoanna knew what people thought of her—too serious, too principled, too idealistic. But she leaned into it. She didn’t have a political family name to cushion her. She only had her name, her work, and the people who believed in her vision.

Later in the afternoon, she visited Barangay Mabini, where the local daycare center had recently closed down due to lack of maintenance. She sat on a low bench with mothers who had nowhere to leave their toddlers while they worked. They showed her the broken ceiling, the torn mats, the dried-up faucets. One mother—barefoot, her shirt stained with laundry soap—broke down while talking about how she had to stop working to watch her kid.

Jhoanna held her hand. “Kapag ako po ang nanalo, babalik ang daycare niyo. Pero hindi lang basta daycare. Gusto ko may feeding program, may health checks. Gusto ko, safe ang mga anak niyo habang kayo ay kumakayod.”

One of her team members took photos—but only with consent. Jhoanna didn’t like pity porn. She preferred promises backed with plans. By sundown, she had visited three barangays. Her tote bag was nearly empty, her shirt soaked with sweat, her throat raw from nonstop talking. Still, she walked slowly on the way back to the van. Because people still stopped her.

“Ma’am, papicture po!”

“Idol kita, Ma’am Jhoanna!”

“Papasok ka na sa gobyerno, ‘wag kang magbago, ha!”

And every single time, she smiled. She waved. She reminded them: “Hindi ko po ‘to magagawa nang mag-isa. Kasama kayo sa laban ko.”

Back in the van, her team recapped the day’s stats—number of homes reached, flyers distributed, issues raised. But Jhoanna leaned her head against the window, staring at the orange-lit city streets. And again, without meaning to, she thought of Aiah. The way her voice had trembled with anger during the forum. The way her jaw tensed every time they clashed. The way she still knew her. Too well.

I wish we had met again in a different way, Jhoanna thought to herself.

Then she sat up, cleared her throat, and asked her team: “Saan tayo bukas?” Because no matter how much she missed what once was—she had a city to fight for.

By the time Jhoanna got home, the sky had already bled into deep indigo. The house was quiet. Only the soft buzz of the refrigerator and the faint chirp of crickets filled the stillness. She stepped out of her shoes by the door and dropped her canvas tote onto the small bench near the entryway. Her legs ached. Her throat felt scraped. There was dust under her fingernails and sweat along her spine. But her chest—her chest was full. She had been among the people again. She had looked them in the eyes and listened. Real problems. Real pain. Real hope.

Jhoanna walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, leaning on the counter as she took slow gulps. Her campaign secretary had sent the end-of-day report through email already. She didn’t check it yet. For now, she just wanted silence. Not the kind that made her feel alone, but the kind that let her breathe in the moments she just lived. She walked to the living room and collapsed into the couch, curling her legs under her. The lights were dim. She stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. It was a familiar view. The kind that hadn’t changed since her college days. Everything else had. Her name, now uttered in political forums. Her face, printed on posters. Her voice, recorded, looped, debated over on radio segments.

But in the silence of her home, Jhoanna was just herself again. She smiled faintly as she remembered the children in Barangay Maligaya, one of them asking if she was the “girl who shouted on TV.” She thought of the construction worker who fist-bumped her, the old woman who gave her a banana before she left, and the young mother who cried at the ruins of the daycare center. She had touched something in them. And they had touched something in her.

But then, Aiah. Her mind drifted like a moth to light. She wondered where Aiah went that day. Which barangays had she visited? Did the people connect with her too? Did she hold a crying mother’s hand the way Jhoanna did? Did she talk to street vendors, children, jeepney drivers? Or did she walk through the city like she had back in high school—distant, beautiful, guarded?

And then, as if summoned by the pull of an invisible thread, an old memory bubbled to the surface.

They were both still in college, both back home for semestral break. They had just come back from a late-night dinner—cheap tapsilog from the 24-hour carinderia near the highway. The sky was starless that night, but the moon was huge and round. They sat on the curb in front of Aiah’s house, sipping on plastic cups of iced Milo. Jhoanna had been talking animatedly about her thesis on participatory governance, about the way local government systems often failed because they didn’t know their own people. Aiah was listening, chin resting on her palm, smiling like Jhoanna was her favorite song.

Then Jhoanna asked, half-serious, half-dreaming: “Do you think I’d be fit for mayor someday?”

Aiah blinked at her. Then she laughed. That deep, warm, slightly teasing laugh that Jhoanna would never forget.

“Mayor agad, love?” Aiah said, grinning. “Don’t you want to try being an SK or Councilor muna?”

Jhoanna had nudged her shoulder. “Seryoso ako, baby. Like… if I really ran, do you think I could do it? Like actually serve people? Be good at it?”

Aiah had turned to her then—fully, quietly, sincerely. “Of course I think you could do it.”

Her voice had dropped lower. “I mean, have you met yourself, love? You’ve been writing about these things since high school. You organize community drives for fun. You fight with your professors about policy proposals. You’re… you’re built for this.”

Jhoanna had stared down at her Milo, trying to hide her flustered smile. And then Aiah added, voice softer: “I’m really proud of you. I believe in you. I believe you’re gonna be mayor someday. Of this city. Our city.”

Jhoanna had looked at her, and for a second, the city blurred behind them. She didn’t say anything. But she had tucked those words deep into her chest, kept them like a secret flame.

Now, on this night, sitting alone in her living room, that flame flickered again.

I believe in you.

She had no idea why those words still made her chest tighten. Maybe because Aiah said it first. Before anyone else. Before the press, before the endorsements, before the debates. Aiah had seen that part of her and called it real. But that same girl was now her political rival. The one throwing sharp words at her in televised debates. The one accusing her of hypocrisy, of elitism, of romanticizing poverty.

Her mother’s words from last night echoed again. To not go soft on her. But how could she not? Jhoanna closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. She knew the stakes. She knew what it meant to win. And she knew she couldn’t let memories soften her edge. But god, it was so hard to separate the girl she loved from the woman she was now fighting.

She stood up slowly, shook off the thoughts, and walked to her bedroom. She needed sleep. Tomorrow, another long day waited. More barangays. More people. More stories. And maybe, along the way, less of Aiah in her head. But she knew better. She would carry her all the way through this election.

The following days, then weeks, and soon, months, passed like a blur.

The campaign trail was relentless. It didn’t care if you were tired, if you hadn’t slept, if your voice was cracking, if your body ached. The trail just went on—and you either ran with it, or got swallowed by its pace, and both Aiah and Jhoanna ran with it. Their schedules became brutal. Each day mapped with two, sometimes three barangays. Mornings meant briefings, logistics, route planning. Afternoons were spent under the sun, walking narrow alleys, shaking hands, handing out leaflets, giving speeches in basketball courts turned makeshift community stages. Evenings were motorcades, or meetings with local community leaders, or livestream Q&As hosted by student orgs, or barangay town halls filled with monobloc chairs and sweaty crowds waiting for a glimpse of their would-be mayor. Everywhere they went, the air buzzed with anticipation.

For Aiah, the change was slow, but it was real. At first, people were polite. Lukewarm. Curious at best, skeptical at worst. But she didn’t flinch. She just kept showing up. Kept walking. Kept talking. She listened to the tricycle drivers and sat beside them in tambays. She met with out-of-school youth and asked what kept them from returning. She sat with solo parents who lined up for free lugaw and asked what they needed beyond food packs. She showed up without the grandeur, without the overbearing voice of her father behind her. The more she showed her own spine—her own grit—the more people started to warm to her. Her voice became steadier. Her answers, sharper. The speeches less rehearsed and more personal. She stopped quoting laws and started telling stories. She wasn’t just Atty. Arceta. She was Maraiah. She was Aiah. And the people began to see that.

In Barangay Sto. Rosario, a sari-sari store owner hugged her unexpectedly. “Alam mo, hija,” the woman said, “Akala ko dati suplada ka. Pero buti na lang pala pumunta ka rito. Nakikita ko na ngayon bakit ka lumalaban.” Aiah smiled, blinking fast to hide the sudden wetness in her eyes. She was winning people over.

But Jhoanna—she already had their hearts. Everywhere she went, she was greeted like a daughter returning home.

“Ma’am Jhoanna!”

“‘Yung anak ni Congressman Robles!”

“Dati pa naming kilala ‘yan, matalinong bata talaga!”

“Hindi lang basta matalino, may puso rin.”

The old folks remembered her family’s relief drives. The youth remembered her articles from when she was still a college student. The teachers knew her from the local education reform campaigns she pushed for even after graduation. She was the city’s nerdy, fiery, stubborn prodigy. And now she was running to lead it. Her campaign didn’t need fanfare. It ran on the strength of her connection.

In Barangay San Pedro, an old jeepney driver walked up to her with tears in his eyes. “Anak,” he said, voice shaking, “Salamat sa pagtakbo. Alam namin na kapag ikaw ang nanalo, matutulungan mo kami.” She hugged him, almost losing it.

By the third month, people began to compare the two candidates openly, on the streets, on radio call-ins, in online forums.

“Parehong matalino. Pero si Jhoanna, galing talaga sa masa.”

“Oo, pero si Aiah, may paninindigan din. Hindi basta-basta nagpapa-apak.”

“Nakakatuwa nga, e. Parang pinapanood mo ‘yung bida’t kontrabida pero hindi mo alam sino talaga ‘yung bida.”

On different social media platforms, clips of their speeches were dissected. Their facial expressions studied. Fans of both sides began to emerge—some debating heatedly, some jokingly shipping them. Someone even tweeted:

“‘yung political sexual tension nila grabe. maghalikan na lang kaya kayo sa stage.”

It had 40,000 likes. Neither of them acknowledged the joke, but both saw it. Both stayed quiet about it. Despite the growing noise, the exhaustion, the pressure—they kept going. Sometimes, their schedules overlapped. Not exactly crossing paths, but close enough. Jhoanna would see Aiah’s freshly printed tarps strung on lampposts on her way to a barangay. Aiah would hear stories about how Jhoanna had just left a sitio the day before. It was as if they were orbiting around each other. Close, but never really colliding, and sometimes, when they stood on the same stages—debates, forums, local interviews—the air between them was electric.

Their rivalry was undeniable. But so was the history. You could feel it in the way Aiah’s voice trembled slightly more when she looked at Jhoanna too long. You could see it in the way Jhoanna paused just a half-second when responding to Aiah’s points.

Their campaigns were different, but parallel. Jhoanna’s was rooted in history. Hers was a continuation of advocacy, of presence, of visibility. Aiah’s was rooted in reinvention. She wasn’t here to finish what her father started—she was here to make something entirely her own.

As the final month of the campaign season loomed, both women were undeniably tired. Burnt out in places they didn’t know could burn. But their eyes—those stayed sharp. Focused. Determined. They had come too far. And win or lose, both of them were changing the city already.

It was now the final day of the campaign period. The sun had already sunk into its late afternoon gold when Jhoanna’s convoy entered Barangay San Lorenzo—a small, tightly-knit community nestled in the midwestern part of the city, bordered by overgrown acacia trees and long stretches of cement road flanked by sari-sari stores and laundry lines. Her team was in high spirits, this being their final leg of the campaign, a culmination of months of sweat and sore throats from speech after speech. Aiah, in the backseat, was silent, fixing her lapel mic and gazing out the window. She had rehearsed her speech in her head a dozen times. It would be firm, final, and full of conviction. Today, she would show them all she wasn’t just an Arceta. She was Maraiah Queen.

But the moment they turned into the covered court, she saw it—bold red and gold printed on the side of a campaign van parked just outside: Jhoanna Robles, Para Sa Bayan. Her campaign colors. Her name. Her face smiling with certainty on the tarp’s surface.

Aiah leaned forward, “What the hell?”

Before her team could make sense of it, they saw another vehicle pull up just across from them. The passenger door opened and out stepped Jhoanna, holding a folder of cue cards and blinking rapidly, clearly as surprised as they were. The court fell into a hush. Both teams emerged from their vehicles, unsure if this was war or a badly scheduled accident. Aiah’s campaign manager was the first to speak, low but firm. “Ma’am, do you want us to talk to the barangay council? We can resched—”

Jhoanna’s team whispered harshly too. “They probably planned this. What if she tries to steal your platform? Sabotage your talking points?”

But Aiah’s eyes were locked on Jhoanna’s. She took a step forward. Before either candidate could speak, a barangay councilor in a floral polo came running from the barangay hall, clutching a folder and sweating like a pig. “Ma’am Jhoanna, Atty. Aiah—I deeply, deeply apologize. May discrepancy po sa master schedule namin. Hindi po namin na-double check—”

Aiah raised a hand. Her voice was calm, unexpected. “Can we do it together?”

The words stunned both camps. Jhoanna stared at her, taken aback, and for a moment, unsure if she heard it right. Aiah turned to the councilor. “I’m okay with it, if Miss Robles is okay too. Para hindi na po masayang ang pagkakataon. The people are here. We don’t want to waste their time.”

Jhoanna’s team erupted into quiet protest. “Ma’am, this might be a trap,” her secretary whispered.

But Jhoanna took a deep breath. Her eyes didn’t leave Aiah’s. “Okay,” she said, just as softly. “Let’s do it together.”

The covered court was now slowly filling up with residents—some recognizing both figures from TV, social media, or community posters. The MC, a youth council member, scrambled to revise the script and adjust the mic system. When both women stood on stage, the tension was unlike any other rally. The people could feel it—an unspoken history, a charged silence, a complex current running between them that even the most powerful speakers couldn’t mask.

Aiah spoke first. She stepped forward and greeted the people with her usual tone—sharp, clear, formal. But the edge of nerves trembled at the corners of her voice. “Magandang hapon po sa inyong lahat. I’m Atty. Maraiah Queen Arceta. I came here today to speak about hope, discipline, and real governance. But I guess, fate wanted me to do it beside someone I respect deeply.”

Jhoanna flinched subtly. She stared at the podium but didn’t move. Aiah went on. “Hindi po kami magka-partido. Hindi kami magka-kampihan. But if anything, I want you to hear us both. You deserve to hear everything, weigh your choices. You deserve transparency.”

That earned her applause. Then, after a beat, Jhoanna stepped up. Her hand was steady as she held the mic, but her eyes flicked to Aiah for a heartbeat too long. “Thank you, Atty. Maraiah,” she began quietly, earning a few gasps from both teams—her first time saying Aiah’s name in public since the campaign began. “I agree with her. Today is not just about platforms. It’s about showing the people who we are, not just as candidates, but as individuals who will lead them. So I thank you all for coming.”

They took turns speaking. No moderators. No hosts. Just two women who once loved each other, now standing across the same stage, speaking to the same hearts. Aiah spoke about expanding healthcare in the farthest sitios, citing real-life stories she had heard from the campaign trail. Jhoanna followed by talking about investing in local health centers, citing budget plans and corruption-proof structures.

Jhoanna brought up local housing—“We need not just shelters, but homes built with dignity.” Aiah nodded slowly, then added on, “And homes that are safe from eviction and flooding. We need protective zoning laws.”

The crowd began murmuring approval. The barangay tanods at the back were nodding. Even the tricycle drivers near the sari-sari stores listened in, arms crossed, heads tilted.

As the speech went on, it became less of a debate and more of a dance. Not perfect. Not polished. But honest. And then, just before they ended, Aiah surprised everyone again, “Kung matalo man ako,” she said, facing the people, “At least I know it’s to someone who truly deserves it. And I think you already know who that is.”

She turned to Jhoanna for only a second—but it felt like an eternity. Jhoanna’s heart skipped painfully. Her team looked like they were holding their breath. But Jhoanna stepped forward, took the mic, and answered with something that made the air even heavier. “Kung manalo man ako,” she said softly, “I hope I can still count on the people who once believed in me… and maybe, someone who still does.”

The court erupted in a mix of claps, stunned silence, and someone whispering “Hala, bakit parang bagay sila?”

They shook hands before exiting the stage—cold fingers brushing against each other, warm skin trembling ever so slightly. And though the moment was brief, the weight of it would linger long after the last cheers died down.

After that, Aiah found herself growing restless with the noise of her team debriefing by the barangay outpost. She couldn’t think straight, not with adrenaline still rushing through her system, not with the lingering sensation of standing next to Jhoanna—listening to her speak, watching her listen, feeling their words flow one after the other like they were still on the same wavelength they once shared. Jhoanna had felt it too. She kept glancing in Aiah’s direction during the debrief with her own team, barely registering what her campaign manager was telling her about tomorrow’s schedule. Her mind was elsewhere. With her. With Aiah. With that look they exchanged when the little boy asked if they used to be friends. So when they quietly made their excuses—Aiah saying she needed air, Jhoanna saying she forgot something in the van—they found each other almost too easily at the back of the barangay hall, where the concrete path led down to a creek barely visible in the dark. There were no lampposts in this part of the barangay. Only the faint orange glow from the court some meters behind them and the occasional passing tricycle humming along the distant road.

They walked in silence until the voices from the court faded entirely. It wasn’t planned. It was instinct. Gravity. “I didn’t expect tonight,” Jhoanna said softly, breaking the silence. Her voice had none of the sternness she carried on stage, just the bare, stripped-down tone she hadn’t used in years. “You surprised me.”

Aiah smiled faintly, brushing her hand through her wind-blown hair. “I surprised myself, too. But I guess it just felt right. I didn’t want to walk away from it. Not this time.”

They both stopped walking at the same time, as if something invisible had pulled them to the same spot. They were standing a few steps apart in the shadows near an old tree that must’ve stood there longer than either of them had been alive. The creek beside them murmured in the dark. Somewhere farther off, a dog barked.

“Your team’s probably freaking out,” Aiah said, half-laughing.

“Yours too,” Jhoanna replied, mirroring her grin.

Then silence again. Not heavy. Just full.

“I heard people clap for you earlier,” Jhoanna said after a beat, her voice quieter now. “Like, genuinely clap. Not the polite kind.”

Aiah tilted her head slightly, surprised. “You noticed?”

“I notice a lot of things when it comes to you.”

The words slipped out before Jhoanna could stop them. But she didn’t take them back. Not this time.

Aiah didn’t respond right away. She looked down, her shoes shifting against the gravel. “People hated me when I filed my candidacy. Thought I was just another puppet of my father. Some probably still think that.”

“But you’re not,” Jhoanna said firmly. “You’ve changed. Or maybe you’ve become more of who you really were. The people are seeing that now.”

Aiah looked up, and Jhoanna saw it—right there in her eyes. That vulnerable glint of someone who had carried herself with armor for too long. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to.

Because Jhoanna was already smiling. Softly. Proudly.

“You were really good tonight,” Aiah said next. “I mean—always, you’re always good. But tonight, I saw it again. That fire in your eyes. The way you talk to people like you’ve already lived their lives. You still have it, Tintin.”

Jhoanna’s breath caught in her throat at the nickname. God. It hadn’t been said like that in years.

“Don’t do that,” she whispered, barely able to keep her composure. “Don’t say my name like that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” Aiah said, almost breathless.

And just like that, the space between them felt impossibly charged. Neither of them moved, but they were no longer standing still. Every second, every glance—they were inching toward something. Neither one dared to speak. Not when the silence suddenly felt more comforting than any conversation they could have had. The sound of crickets filled the air. The faint hum of the distant road continued. There was no one else. Just them. Jhoanna’s gaze lingered on Aiah’s face. Her hair slightly frizzy from the humidity, the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead from the day’s heat, the edge of her lips twitching as if unsure whether to speak again or not. Aiah was staring too. At her. At the girl she once held under the stars. At the woman she had become—still fierce, still principled, still painfully beautiful.

And then, their eyes met. A moment too long.

Jhoanna stepped closer. She wasn’t sure what part of her decided. The heart or the memory or something else entirely. But she reached out. Gently, almost hesitantly, she cupped Aiah’s face with both hands. Aiah’s breath hitched. And then Jhoanna kissed her.

It wasn’t a hungry kiss, or one born out of desperation. It was slow, intentional—like a memory coming home. Like a song she had almost forgotten the melody to. She kissed her like it still meant something. Like everything was still there between them, buried beneath years of silence, waiting for this one act to unearth it. Aiah gasped softly at first, out of shock. Her hands froze midair, unsure of what to do. But then her body remembered. And she melted into it. Her hands moved to Jhoanna’s waist, then up her back, gripping the fabric of her blouse like she was anchoring herself. Her eyes fluttered closed as the kiss deepened, her lips moving in sync with the only pair they had ever truly known how to dance with.

When Jhoanna finally pulled away to breathe, both of them were panting slightly. The night felt warmer somehow. Neither of them spoke right away. But there were no regrets in their eyes. Not a trace of doubt. Only the thudding of their hearts and the reality of what had just happened between them—again.

Aiah touched her lips, still catching her breath. “That… that happened.”

Jhoanna nodded slowly, her thumb brushing gently over Aiah’s cheek. “It did.”

And for the first time in a long time, both of them allowed themselves to just stand there—unguarded, unwatched, unburdened. In that hidden place. Somewhere between who they used to be and who they still could become.

What Aiah and Jhoanna didn’t know—couldn’t have known in that almost sacred moment by the creek—was that someone else had been there. Not close. Just passing. A resident on their way home from a night shift, walking silently with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his phone in hand, saw two silhouettes sitting close on a bench under the moonlight. At first, he didn’t pay attention—barangay life was always full of young lovers and late-night tambayans. But when he got closer, and saw who it was—two women, both familiar faces from campaign posters plastered all over the city—his eyes widened. He crouched instinctively behind a rusted tricycle parked a few feet away and pulled out his phone’s camera. The moment he captured wasn’t just two people kissing—it was two political rivals, known across the city, suddenly sharing what looked like a deeply intimate, personal moment. He took several pictures, including the tender hug that followed, and the way they smiled at each other before walking off in opposite directions.

Without thinking too hard about it, without wondering what that photo might mean or how it might hurt, he uploaded them on Facebook.

“Mayoral Candidates, Jhoanna Robles and Atty. Maraiah Queen Arceta caught kissing near the creek!

 

#Election2025 #AiahArceta #JhoannaRobles #MayoralRace #IsthisWLW”

It didn’t take long.

Jhoanna and Aiah had already gone home, their heads full of each other.

Jhoanna got back to her house, dropped her campaign tote bag by the door, and exhaled slowly. Her team had already called it a night and didn’t press her for debriefing. She washed her face, changed into her old college shirt, and sat on the edge of her bed, replaying the moment by the creek over and over again. She touched her lips with the back of her fingers and smiled like an idiot.

Oh my god, she thought. I kissed her. We kissed.

It wasn’t part of the plan—not her campaign plan, not her personal plan. And yet, it felt right. She hadn’t felt that kind of clarity in a long time.

On the other side of the city, Aiah was sprawled out on her couch, still in her campaign pants, feet kicked up, her blouse untucked. She hadn’t even showered yet, but she was grinning at the ceiling like she had just won the lottery. She replayed Jhoanna’s smile in her head, the way her eyes looked right before she leaned in, the way their fingers brushed when they hugged goodbye.

“God,” she whispered to herself, laughing softly, heart beating erratically. “Why does her lips still taste like strawberries?”

Still smiling, both women drifted into sleep, unaware of the storm forming online.

By midnight, the post had 7,000 shares. By 2 AM, it had tripled. Screenshots of the photos flooded Facebook, Twitter, and TikTok. People cropped it, reposted it, made memes, made theories, and started threads.

Some were ecstatic:

“OMG THEY’RE IN LOVE??? THE PLOT TWIST OF THE YEAR.”

 

“Suddenly I believe in politics again.”

 

“From debate to date??? Let’s goooo #JhoAiah2025”

Others were cautiously neutral:

“Maybe this was staged? PR tactic?”

 

“Guys, ‘wag muna tayo mag-assume. Malay natin may context.”

 

But of course, the backlash came in waves:

“This is unprofessional. The campaign is not a romance movie.”

 

“How can we trust either of them now? Are they even serious about leading our city?”

 

“This is a betrayal to the democratic process.”

And the worst of them—comments laced with homophobia, misogyny, and thinly veiled disgust:

“So this is what we’re voting for? Two women playing games?”

 

“This is immoral. Disgraceful.”

People began tagging news outlets, citizen journalists, and local bloggers. Commentaries started appearing, op-eds were drafted, and screenshots made their way into Messenger group chats of city employees and government officials. Even talk shows began preparing segments for the morning.

By the time the sun began rising, the names Jhoanna Robles and Maraiah Queen Arceta were trending nationwide. But in their homes, Jhoanna and Aiah were still asleep—oblivious. The city stirred while they dreamt, still holding each other’s smiles in their minds. The digital world buzzed with chaos, commentary, and curiosity.

And everything—everything—was about to change.

The morning light had only just begun to slip between the thin slits of Jhoanna’s window blinds, casting narrow golden bars across her face and the creases of her blanket. She was still tangled in her sheets, sleeping on her side with the faintest of smiles on her lips—the kind of smile that lingered after a dream that mirrored real life a little too closely. Her body stirred slightly, fingers curling into the pillow beside her as if trying to hold onto the memory of the night before: the softness of Aiah’s lips, the way their breaths tangled in silence, how the stars above them looked so ordinary yet unforgettable.

But the peacefulness shattered with a loud bang.

“Jhoanna Christine!”

The door flew open with the full force of an anxious mother who had already processed three emotions before breakfast—concern, confusion, and disbelief. Footsteps thudded urgently on the wooden floor, brisk and unrelenting, and the voice that followed pierced through sleep like a fire alarm.

“Jho, gumising ka na! Tumayo ka diyan, anak—this is serious!”

Jhoanna jerked awake, sitting up abruptly as her eyes snapped open in a panic. She was disoriented, still half-asleep, eyes struggling to adjust.

“Ma? What—anong nangyayari?” she asked, voice hoarse and thick with sleep.

Her mother was already beside the bed, phone in hand, her expression a mix of maternal worry and the kind of disbelief only a small-town Filipino mother could perfect. She shoved the phone into Jhoanna’s line of sight without a word. “Look at this!”

Jhoanna blinked down at the screen. A picture was already loaded. A post with over 300,000 likes on Facebook. A high-definition photo—too high-definition, she realized. Her chest sank. It was unmistakable. She was there, in the picture. So was Aiah. The creekside. The kiss.

Jhoanna’s hand immediately flew to her mouth. Her face flushed with panic, her fingers gripping the edge of her blanket like it could somehow hide her from the world. “Oh my God,” she breathed, voice barely audible.

“Oh my God talaga,” her mother echoed, pacing once in place. “Anak, buong kanto pinag-uusapan na kayo. Kanina pa ako tinatanong ng kapitbahay kung totoo raw ba. Alam mo si Aling Rhea? Ayun, nagchichika na sa tindahan. ‘Yung tricycle drivers? Pinag-uusapan kayo habang naghihintay ng pasahero.”

“Wait, wait—wait!” Jhoanna scrambled for her own phone on the nightstand. Her fingers trembled as she unlocked it. Notification banners exploded across the screen like fireworks: messages from her team, missed calls from her friends, tags on social media, news alerts. Her heart was racing.

She tapped on Twitter. Trending.

#JhoAiah

#RoblesGirlKisser

#RoblesArceta

#WuhLuhWuh

She clicked on one of the top posts. The photo again. Then another. A slideshow. A close-up. A slow-mo TikTok edit. A fancam.

Jesus Christ.

She scrolled down and saw people arguing in the replies. Some found it romantic, others were cynical. There were posts that praised the kiss for “breaking barriers” and others that accused her of orchestrating it to “distract voters.” Her head was spinning.

“Anak, I’m not mad, okay?” her mother said after a moment, more softly now, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her voice was steadier, but her brows were still pinched. “Pero naiiyak ako sa hiya kanina habang bumibili ako ng pandesal. Everyone already knows. Akala nila campaign tactic. Akala nila scripted. Tapos ikaw, hindi ka nagsasabi sa akin—”

“I didn’t know, Ma,” Jhoanna said quickly. Her throat tightened. “I swear. We didn’t know may kukuha ng picture. We were alone. I didn’t even hear anyone. It wasn’t… it wasn’t for show.”

Her mother sighed heavily, hands folding over each other. “Alam kong hindi.” Jhoanna looked at her in surprise.

“You still love Aiah,” her mother said, not unkindly. “I know that. Halata naman ever since you learned na she’s your rival for this election.”

Jhoanna blushed and looked down, caught. “Ma...”

“Anak kita, ‘di mo ako maloloko.” Her mother gave a weary smile, brushing a strand of hair from Jhoanna’s face. “Pero ngayon, mayoral candidate ka na. Hindi lang ‘to tungkol sa feelings. Hindi lang ‘to tungkol sa kung sinong mahal mo.” Jhoanna nodded, slowly absorbing the weight of it. “People will judge,” her mother continued. “Even if wala kayong ginagawang masama. Kahit totoo ‘yung nararamdaman niyo. They will still say you’re using each other. Or that you’re fooling the people. Alam mo ‘yan.”

“I know,” Jhoanna whispered.

“You have to be ready for that,” her mother said. “And you have to decide—kung kaya mo ‘tong panindigan. Kasi kung hindi, ‘wag mo nang simulan ulit.”

Jhoanna sat with that silence for a long moment. She wasn’t even sure what this was—what last night meant, or what came next. But she remembered Aiah’s face after the kiss, the way she had smiled like something inside her had finally clicked into place. She remembered how full her own heart felt. And maybe, she didn’t want to run away from it. She looked up at her mother. “Ma, I don’t regret it.”

Her mother stared at her for a beat, then sighed and shook her head with a faint, defeated smile. Then she stood, brushing her pants. “Tara na. Kumain ka muna. Kailangan mong maghanda. Malapit na ang eleksyon—at mas maraming magtatanong ngayon.”

As her mother left the room, Jhoanna sat back on the bed, scrolling one last time through the comments. Some were brutal, but others were kind.

“Vote wisely, but also, let people love who they love.”

 

“This changes nothing for me. In fact, it makes me believe in their sincerity even more.”

 

“Maybe the city needs leaders who actually feel something.”

Her pulse steadied. Whatever happened next, she wasn’t going to hide.

When Aiah woke up that morning, the first thing that pierced through her half-conscious state was the sound of her father’s voice echoing from downstairs.

“MARAIAH!”

Her father’s voice thundered through the house, and the force behind it immediately made her bolt upright. She didn’t even have time to shake off the sleep as her adrenaline surged. Her bare feet hit the floor, cold against the tiles, and she hurried down the staircase, already bracing herself. She had no idea what was coming, but her gut told her it was nothing good.

As soon as her father saw her at the foot of the stairs, he marched toward her with terrifying speed. Before she could even utter a word, his hand flew across her cheek—so hard, she stumbled back a step, one hand instinctively flying to her face. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, MARAIAH?” he barked, voice booming with fury. “KISSING YOUR RIVAL? YOUR OPPONENT? IS THIS A DAMN JOKE TO YOU?!”

Her ears rang—not just from the slap, but from the way her world had suddenly tilted sideways. Behind them, the two bodyguards who had stayed the night tried to intervene. “Sir—Sir, please—” one of them stepped forward, but Aiah’s father raised his arm in warning and shot him a glare so sharp he instantly backed down.

“I have poured everything—EVERYTHING—into your campaign. Your team, your resources, your strategy. I pulled strings to get you where you are now and THIS—” He held up his phone, screen glaring with a bright photo—the photo—of her and Jhoanna, unmistakably kissing under the faint glow of streetlights, “—THIS is what you do?”

Aiah stood frozen, a tear already clinging to her lower lash line. She wasn’t even crying yet—she couldn’t. Her mind felt like it had short-circuited. The sound of her father’s voice became more and more muffled, like it was underwater. Her heart pounded too loud in her ears. She staggered back a few steps, still holding her cheek, and grabbed her phone from the dining table. The screen lit up immediately, buzzing from dozens of notifications. Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. Articles. Screenshots. Gossip pages. Her inbox flooded. She opened one post—and there it was again. That kiss. Her kiss with Jhoanna. Frozen in time. Sharp. Blown up. Shared.

She could barely breathe. Hands trembling, she pulled up Jhoanna’s contact and typed fast, without even thinking.

Maraiah Queen Arceta

Jhoanna. 

JHOANNA, WHAT THE FUCK.

WHAT DO WE DO?!

Jhoanna replied in under a minute.

Jhoanna Christine Robles

I’m so sorry. Hindi ko alam na may dumaraan doon. 

We need to fix this as soon as possible. Election’s next week.

 

Aiah’s knees gave way and she slumped into the nearest chair.

Fix it. That was the only thing they could do now. But how do you fix something that the whole city had already seen? Something that—despite the panic and the public fallout—didn’t even feel like a mistake?

The sun was barely past its peak, but both campaign headquarters were already in full crisis mode.

At Jhoanna’s office, her core team was gathered in the main war room, the whiteboard already full of arrows, keywords, and contingency plans hastily written in red marker. Her communications director was barking into a phone, trying to get in touch with friendly media outlets. The social media handler had four tabs open at once—one for Facebook trends, one for Twitter, another for a sentiment analyzer tool, and the last for typing out a public response draft. Volunteers were murmuring anxiously in the hallway, refreshing their timelines over and over.

“She hasn’t posted anything yet,” one of them said.

“She shouldn’t,” said another, “Not yet. We need to wait for the narrative to shift.”

In the middle of all this chaos, Jhoanna was seated on a couch in the farthest corner of the office. A cold cup of coffee sat untouched in front of her. Her phone rested in her palm, screen black, thumb grazing the edge of it absentmindedly. Her laptop was open on her lap, but the blinking cursor on the blank document stared back at her like a dare.

She knew she should be in the middle of this. She was the candidate. The supposed future mayor. But her mind wasn’t there. It was still somewhere else—still in that hidden corner of the barangay where the noise of the campaign had faded, where the scent of diesel and street food had been replaced by the sharpness of night air. Where Aiah’s eyes had found hers under the dim streetlight, soft and nervous and wanting. Where they kissed.

Jhoanna closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall behind her. She could still feel it. The way Aiah’s lips had tasted faintly of mint and something sweet, like the candy she’d been nervously sucking on during the forum. The way their mouths had moved together, hesitant at first, then bold. The way her hand instinctively cupped Aiah’s jaw, fingers trembling with the kind of touch that came from too much longing built over too many years. It had been warm. Electric. Terrifying. Right. And now it was everywhere.

“Ma’am Jhoanna,” her campaign manager whispered, crouching beside her. “We’re working on the PR response. Do you want to approve the statement before we release anything?”

Jhoanna blinked back into the present. “Yeah. Just give me five more minutes.”

She smiled politely, but her chest was heavy, eyes drifting again—wondering if Aiah was feeling the same.

At Aiah’s campaign base, the situation was no better.

Screens lined the walls showing news clips, TikTok reactions, and political vloggers dissecting the implications of The Kiss. Some commentators called it brave. Others called it a scandal. A few hinted it was staged. The conspiracy theories were already blooming like wildflowers. Aiah sat in her own office, lights dimmed, blinds closed. Her cheek still throbbed from that slap earlier. She hadn’t spoken to her father again after storming off, slamming the door behind her. Her team, while panicked, tiptoed around her for now, as though waiting for her to explode or collapse. But she wasn’t doing either.

She was sitting in her chair, legs drawn up to her chest, forehead resting on her knees as she recalled the moment from last night. And there it was. The image of Jhoanna, post-kiss, breathless, eyes glowing like they were holding galaxies. Smiling, just a little. The kind of smile you don’t give to just anyone. Aiah’s stomach flipped. Even with everything on fire outside, the only thing looping in her mind was how good it felt. How soft Jhoanna had been. How her lips tasted like strawberries. How, for once, Aiah didn’t feel like she had to prove herself. How she could’ve stayed in that kiss forever and still wanted more.

Someone knocked on her door. “Attorney?” It was her head strategist, voice tentative. “We need you downstairs. There’s a preliminary press release you need to look at. Also, there’s a rumor that a certain political party might try to spin this against you…”

“I’ll be there,” Aiah called back. But she didn’t move. She stayed there, curled up on her chair, for just one more minute. Just one more minute to hold onto the warmth of Jhoanna’s lips before the world took it away again.

By late afternoon, after a full day of PR strategizing, damage control sessions, and half-written drafts thrown into the trash bin, both Jhoanna and Aiah knew they couldn’t wait any longer. The silence had become too loud, and speculations were spiraling far beyond their control. It was time to speak.

Jhoanna posted first. Her team had spent hours debating tone, wording, and timing, but in the end, Jhoanna insisted on writing it herself. She knew this had to come from her—not from an intern, not from her comms head, not from a lawyer. Just her. At exactly 5:43 PM, she posted the statement on her official Facebook page. A simple white text on a dark blue background. Nothing flashy. Just honest.

STATEMENT FROM JHOANNA CHRISTINE ROBLES

 

Good evening to everyone.

 

I’d like to begin this post by apologizing to those who may have been disappointed or confused by the photos circulating online. I understand that, as a public figure running for a position of trust, I am held to a certain standard—and I respect that deeply.

 

What I will not do is lie to you.

 

The photos are real. The moment was real. It wasn’t scripted, it wasn’t staged, and it wasn’t part of any campaign strategy. It was simply a brief moment of honesty between two people who have shared a long history, and whose paths have—unexpectedly and complicatedly—crossed again in this journey.

 

I know many of you are wondering what this means for the campaign. I want to be very clear: this does not change my commitment to serve you with integrity, passion, and transparency. I still believe in public service. I still believe in this city. And I still believe in all of you.

 

I ask only for your kindness—and your focus. Let us not use this moment to discredit Atty. Maraiah Queen Arceta, who has also worked tirelessly to reach the communities we all care about. Let us return to the real conversations: our policies, our plans, our visions for a better city.

 

Thank you for your understanding. Let’s move forward together.

 

Para Sa Bayan,

Jhoanna Christine Robles

By the time it hit the ten minute mark, it had over 19,000 reactions, 3,000 comments, and 5,500 shares. The comment section was a mixed sea of praise, anger, indifference, support, disappointment, and sympathy. But one thing was clear. People were listening.

Aiah posted hers at 6:15 PM.

Her father had begged her to let the legal team vet it one more time, but Aiah had shaken her head. “It’s mine,” she said. “I’ll take responsibility for it.” Her post had no graphic background, no bold design—just a plain caption with a long statement underneath, written in the body of the post. The words were raw, controlled, and fiercely honest.

STATEMENT FROM MARAIAH QUEEN ARCETA

 

I’ve thought long and hard about whether or not to speak up. But silence is a privilege I cannot afford right now—not when things are being said about me, about her, and about what that photo supposedly means.

 

So here is the truth:

 

Yes, the photo is real. Yes, that moment happened. And no, it was not a campaign stunt. It was not planned. It was not practiced. It was not part of my platform.

 

It was just me. A 30-year-old human being. Someone who’s been working nonstop for months to win your trust. Someone who still believes in accountability, public service, and systemic change. Someone who—despite everything—is also capable of feeling something deeply, unexpectedly, and honestly.

 

I am sorry if this moment has caused confusion. I understand why people are reacting the way they are, and I do not blame anyone for their disappointment.

 

But I ask you—gently—to remember what’s at stake here.

 

We are less than a week away from choosing who will lead our city. Our campaign has always been about justice, dignity, healthcare, education, and a safer city for all. Let’s not forget that.

 

Let’s not let one photo cloud the months of hard work, both mine and Jhoanna’s.

 

And lastly—thank you. To those who choose to still believe in me, despite everything, I am endlessly grateful.

 

Sincerly,

Atty. Maraiah Queen Arceta

The internet reacted instantly.

Both posts were picked up by local news pages and national blogs. Twitter trended with the hashtags #JhoannaRobles, #MaraiahQueenArceta, and unexpectedly, #VoteLoveOrLeadership, where netizens debated fiercely about whether this incident should influence the elections.

Some memes started surfacing—photos of fictional rivals kissing (“This is them fr”) or TV couples juxtaposed with their campaign photos. Others wrote think pieces: “What Happens When Love and Politics Collide?” and “Should Romance Ever Factor Into Public Service?”

But the more mature voices online also spoke up, reminding others of the real issues: the poverty rates, the job losses, the healthcare gaps. They praised both women for addressing the matter head-on and returning the public’s attention to their platforms. And in between all the noise, two women sat quietly in their respective rooms, phones buzzing with comment notifications, but minds still drifting back to that moment. The kiss that had changed everything—and yet, somehow, changed nothing at all.

The house had been quiet since Aiah posted her statement. Or at least it looked that way from the outside—curtains drawn, gates locked, and no movement visible beyond the heavy walls of the Arceta residence. But inside, the silence was thick. Tense. Waiting. Aiah sat on the living room sofa, phone on her lap, screen dimmed, fingers nervously tapping the cushion beside her. She was still wearing the same hoodie she slept in. Her body felt numb from everything—the slap, the media storm, the relentless back-to-back meetings with her campaign team, the press messages she ignored, and the kiss she couldn't forget. Then came the sound she was dreading. A firm, heavy-footed approach. Her father had entered the room without saying a word. The air shifted instantly, colder and heavier. In his hand was his own phone, the screen showing Jhoanna’s post. He scrolled through it slowly, expression unreadable.

And then his voice—low, bitter—cut the silence like a blade. “So it’s really true.”

Aiah didn’t move. He tossed the phone on the coffee table and crossed his arms. “You didn’t even bother to deny it.” She still didn’t look at him.

“And this—this one you kissed? A woman?!” His voice rose in disbelief. “Are you trying to ruin the name your mother and I worked hard to protect all these years?”

Aiah clenched her jaw but kept her lips shut. She already knew where this was going.

“You’re an Arceta,” he spat. “You’re supposed to be smart. Respectable. You're supposed to win—not embarrass your entire family with your… feelings.” A pause. “Is this what you want people to remember about you? Not your work, not your platform, but that you threw everything away because you couldn’t control your urges?”

Her throat tightened. She bit the inside of her cheek.

“Answer me, Maraiah.”

Still, she didn’t reply. She couldn't—not without exploding, and she didn't have the energy for another explosion. Not today. She stood up instead. Slowly. Quietly. Her eyes were stinging but she refused to cry in front of him.

Her father took a step forward, and for a split second, she thought he might yell again, or worse. But instead, he just stared at her with something between fury and confusion. Then, with a bitter laugh, he said, “You’re a disgrace.”

It landed like a knife. But she didn’t let it show. She turned away, walked out of the living room, and went back upstairs. The door clicked shut behind her, but Aiah didn’t move from where she stood. Her chest felt tight—so tight she had to close her eyes and count her breaths just to keep from collapsing.

One. Two. Three. Four.

It didn’t work. Her legs gave out anyway, and she sank to the floor, curling in on herself with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe more. The house was still quiet downstairs, but her father’s voice kept echoing in her ears, louder than any silence could smother.

“A disgrace.”

“You couldn’t control your urges.”

She could still feel the sting on her cheek from earlier, even though her skin had long since cooled. But that wasn’t the part that hurt the most. She sniffled, wiping at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie. Then, like her body was acting on its own, her hand reached for her phone. She unlocked it. Opened her contacts. Scrolled past names she didn’t want to see. Until she stopped at one contact

“Jhoanna.”

Her thumb hovered over it. Then, before her overthinking could stop her, she hit the call button.

Jhoanna was in her room, laptop open, but her eyes hadn’t moved from the phone in her hand. She had been checking reactions to her Facebook statement every ten seconds. Comments, shares, screenshots. It was blowing up. Her page had never seen this much traction, and not in a way she ever wanted.

She was too distracted to hear the call tone at first, but when she glanced at her screen and saw “Atty. Aiah”, her heart stopped.

She quickly sat up and answered. “Hello?” she said, her voice unsure. “Aiah?”

All she heard on the other end were quiet, shaky breaths. “Aiah?” she asked again, a little more urgently. “Are you okay?”

And then she heard it. Sobs. Raw. Unfiltered. Aiah didn’t even try to hide it anymore. “Hey, hey—wait, are you crying?” Jhoanna asked, now sitting upright, alarmed.

Aiah still didn’t say anything. The only reply was another broken sob, followed by a sharp sniff and a failed attempt to breathe steadily.

“I—I’m sorry,” Aiah finally choked out, voice hoarse. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

Jhoanna’s heart ached. She pushed her laptop aside and laid her hand flat on her chest as if that would ease the pain she suddenly felt for her. “What happened?” she asked, gentler now, her tone like a warm blanket.

Aiah’s voice wavered. “My dad saw our posts. He… he got mad. Really mad. He called me a disgrace. Told me I was embarrassing the family. Said—said I threw everything away just because…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. It broke somewhere between her breath and her shame.

“Oh, Aiah…” Jhoanna whispered, unsure how to respond, but desperate to offer something, anything.

“I didn’t know he’d react like that,” Aiah said. “I mean, I did. But hearing it still hurts.”

“I know,” Jhoanna murmured. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

There was a pause. Then Jhoanna added, without thinking—words tumbling out of her like instinct. “I’m here, okay? I’m here, baby.”

Silence. Both of them froze. Jhoanna’s eyes widened the moment the word left her mouth. She cursed herself under her breath and winced. “I—shit—sorry,” she said, flustered. “I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t thinking, I just—”

Aiah didn’t say anything immediately. Jhoanna was about to fill the silence again, heart racing, when she heard the tiniest laugh on the other end of the line. A weak, breathy chuckle. “It’s okay,” Aiah whispered. “You can call me that. If you want.”

Jhoanna’s lips parted slightly. “You sure?”

“I don’t think I ever really stopped wanting to hear it.”

The confession hung between them like a trembling thread. Jhoanna exhaled, her shoulders relaxing a bit for the first time all day. “Okay,” she said softly. “Okay, baby.”

And this time, Aiah didn’t cry. She just smiled—barely, faintly, through the pain—and leaned back against her bed, her body still heavy but her heart just a little lighter. Jhoanna didn’t hang up. Neither did she. They just stayed on the line, not talking, but not needing to. The line buzzed softly with their presence, both of them curled up in their respective corners of the world, feeling a little less alone now.

They didn’t know what would happen next. Didn’t know how the public would continue reacting, or what new headlines would explode tomorrow. But in that moment—just that moment—they let the world disappear. Just two voices, one call, and the memory of something they thought they had lost.

The days passed like slow-moving clouds after a storm—gray at first, but steadily parting.

At first, Aiah and Jhoanna kept their distance in public. Their teams had advised it, and for the sake of maintaining the illusion of clean professionalism between rivals, they nodded and complied. But behind the scenes, everything was different.

The gossip had stopped. The photos were no longer circulating on people’s feeds. The street murmurs dulled into silence. New topics replaced them in the local chismis mill—someone’s husband caught cheating, a barangay official’s karaoke scandal, a tricycle fare increase. Life moved on. People moved on. But something lingered in both of them. Each night, after long days of barangay visits and revising speeches and haggling over campaign materials, they would message each other. Sometimes just a short “you okay?” or “saw your tarpaulin sa palengke, cute mo.” Other nights, they would fall asleep still on call, breaths evening out until one of them softly hung up. There were no labels. No expectations.

One Friday evening, Aiah messaged her.

Maraiah Queen Arceta

Hi Tintin, are you still up?

 

Jhoanna Christine Robles

Hi, Aiah.

Yes, katatapos lang ng meeting.

 

Maraiah Queen Arceta

Do you want to go out?

I’ll sundo you, I have my car with me.

 

Jhoanna stared at her phone for a second longer than necessary.

Jhoanna Christine Robles

Okay, hintayin kita sa labas.

Minutes later, Aiah’s car pulled up outside Jhoanna’s home and HQ. The streetlights cast soft shadows as she stepped out. There was no security detail, no one trailing her. She had asked for the night off from all of that. Jhoanna stood just outside the gates, hair tied loosely, eyes on the verge of shutting off completely. She looked up when she heard the familiar car engine cut off. They didn’t say anything at first. Just stood across each other, eyes taking in what weeks of pressure and distance had done to the other.

“You look tired,” Aiah said.

“Thanks. You look tired din,” Jhoanna quipped. They both chuckled softly.

Without much fanfare, Aiah motioned to the passenger side. “Get in.”

The car ride was quiet, but not awkward. Jhoanna looked out the window most of the time, catching glimpses of old sari-sari stores, kids playing by the sidewalk, campaign posters peeling from walls. The town looked calm again.

Then Aiah spoke, almost hesitantly. “It’s weird, ‘no?”

“What is?”

“This… us. Talking again. Being like this.”

Jhoanna turned her head. “Yeah. But it doesn’t feel wrong.”

“No,” Aiah agreed. “It doesn’t.”

There was silence again. But it wasn’t heavy—it was soft. And then Jhoanna said, “Sometimes, I think we’re crazy.”

Aiah glanced at her. “For running against each other?”

“No,” she said. “For trying to pretend na parang wala tayong history.” That made Aiah’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

“I still remember everything,” Aiah said after a while. “Your handwriting. ‘Yung way mo mag-lecture about local governance like it’s a love letter to the people. The coffee you used to make me na sobrang tamis kahit ayaw ko talaga ng matamis.”

Jhoanna blinked slowly, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “That’s because you said you needed sweetness in your life.”

“You were my sweetness.”

That silenced Jhoanna. Her heart thudded. They stopped at a red light. The glow painted Aiah’s face with a tint of melancholy.

“I don’t know what’s happening to us again,” Aiah murmured. “But I think it’s something.”

“Yeah,” Jhoanna said. “It’s something.”

Their eyes met across the dim interior of the car. There were no fireworks, no dramatic music. Just the pulsing ache of something once lost now trying to find its way back. It wasn’t the old kind of love. No, this felt more grounded—slower, more hesitant, but real.

Election Day. The city felt different.

Not louder, not more festive—just heavier. There was a strange kind of stillness in the air, like the whole community was holding its breath. Schools had turned into polling centers, barangay halls were alive with volunteers, and every tricycle, jeepney, and sari-sari store was buzzing in low murmurs about who’s gonna win.

Aiah was pacing slowly across her living room, barefoot, holding a cold mug of coffee that she had reheated twice but never actually drank. Her team had insisted she stay at home after voting. No surprise visits to different precincts in the city, no unnecessary photos, no sudden appearances at tarpaulin-laced streets. “Magpahinga ka na lang, Ma’am,” her campaign manager had said. “The people know you. Let them decide without pressure.” She didn’t argue.

Aiah wasn’t nervous. Not really. She knew what the numbers said. Knew how the surveys tilted ever so slightly in favor of Jhoanna. And after everything that happened—after the kiss, after the online firestorm, after her father’s silence—winning just didn’t feel like the priority anymore. She curled up on the couch and finally picked up her phone. The lock screen lit up with the photo she had forgotten to change: a blurry candid of her and Jhoanna in college, wearing cheap paper crowns from a class party, grinning like fools. It had always been her favorite. She opened her inbox. There was a single unread message from Jhoanna, sent minutes ago.

Jhoanna Christine Robles

How’s your heart? Not the political one. The real one.

 

Aiah smiled, bit her lip, and typed back quickly.

Maraiah Queen Arceta

It’s calm. I think it knows you’re gonna win. And I think it’s okay with that. Because what’s so bad about having a mayor girlfriend, right?

Not even thirty seconds passed before her phone vibrated again.

Jhoanna Christine Robles

You’re assuming I win. What if it’s you?

Aiah laughed to herself. “She’s still like that,” she muttered aloud. Still humble. Still grounded. Still making Aiah’s heart ache in the best possible way. She called her.

“Hi,” Jhoanna answered, voice soft but amused.

“Hi,” Aiah replied, flopping backward on the couch. “I’m bored.”

“You’re not supposed to be bored. You’re supposed to be nervously chewing through three pencils.”

“I would, but I’m out of pencils na.”

Jhoanna chuckled on the other end. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Aiah answered truthfully. “I’m actually at peace? Parang whatever happens, I’m just glad I made it to the end. And, well, that I got to have you back even for just a little.”

A pause. “You never really lost me,” Jhoanna said.

That made Aiah pause, her lips pressing into a soft, thoughtful smile. She curled her knees up to her chest like she used to when she was nervous in high school. “Do you think they’ll think it’s rigged if I win?”

“Only if I start calling you ‘Your Honor’ in public,” Jhoanna teased.

“You better. I’ll be the hot mayor in stilettos.”

“Oh my god,” Jhoanna laughed. “Can you imagine your speech? ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for believing in me, now I’d like to thank my campaign manager, my glam team, and my very pretty girlfriend-slash-opponent.’”

“Exactly!” Aiah beamed. “See? You already accepted your fate.”

But Jhoanna quieted down after that, not out of worry—just reflective. “I really don’t know who’ll win, Aiah,” she said softly. “People are unpredictable. Even surveys get it wrong. But whatever happens, thank you. Thank you for running this race with me. Thank you for being brave enough to come back into my life.”

Aiah’s throat tightened a bit. “Don’t say things like that. You’ll make me cry before results even come out.”

“Sorry,” Jhoanna whispered. “It’s just that today feels like the ending of something. Or maybe the beginning.”

“Maybe both,” Aiah said.

They fell into silence after that. But it wasn’t empty. It was warm, like a blanket pulled over old scars. Outside, the world kept spinning—people lined up in school classrooms, volunteers handed out water, old men debated loudly at street corners. Hours passed. Jhoanna stayed on her bed, curled beneath a thin blanket, flipping through unread books she couldn’t focus on. Her campaign team sent updates from the ground—turnout numbers and precinct photos. She replied with thumbs-up emojis. Nothing more. Across the city, Aiah prepares her lunch while the news played softly in the background. But her heart wasn’t in it. Her mind kept drifting—back to the campaign trail, back to the kiss under the shadows, back to Jhoanna’s eyes after.

The day stretched long and anxious—but not unbearable. Because somehow, knowing the other was out there—breathing the same thick summer air, feeling the same weight in their chest—was enough.

Dawn broke quietly over the city. The sky was a soft, bluish gray, clouds still heavy with sleep, as if the world itself was waiting alongside them.

Jhoanna sat cross-legged on her bed, a mug of lukewarm coffee untouched on the nightstand. Her campaign team had taken over the living room downstairs, watching the news coverage, but she had chosen to stay in her room, wrapped in her own silence. She needed this moment to feel personal. On her screen, Aiah’s face flickered in the dim light of her bedroom, chin resting on her knees, hair still tousled from sleep. They’d been on the video call for almost an hour, barely saying anything, just being there. Breathing together. Waiting together.

Every few minutes, they’d glance at the tab open on their laptops: LIVE RESULTS: LOCAL ELECTIONS 2025 – Barangay Updates, Precincts, and Final Tally Incoming.

“I’m sweating, pero parang hindi ko alam kung dahil sa init or sa kaba,” Jhoanna whispered, eyes flicking to Aiah on her screen.

“Baka both,” Aiah murmured, hugging a pillow tightly. “You okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Same.”

Then came the sound. A chorus of cheers erupted from the other room in Jhoanna’s house. Not just clapping—shouting, screaming, someone even banging a pot. Her body stiffened. And at that exact moment, her laptop screen updated.

MAYOR-ELECT OF SANTA MARIA CITY: JHOANNA CHRISTINE ROBLES

Aiah was the first to react. “Oh my God!” she shouted, eyes wide with delight. She jumped off her bed so fast that her phone nearly fell off the desk. “OH MY GOD, YOU WON! YOU FUCKING WON, JHOANNA!”

She was bouncing in place, her voice loud enough to be heard outside her room. Her campaign staff—who had quietly stayed in her home as instructed—peeked in, surprised by the sudden outburst. They weren’t expecting this. Not this level of joy. Not this unfiltered, almost childlike celebration for the opponent’s win.

Jhoanna didn’t speak. Not right away. On her end, the room was a whirlwind—Aiah’s happy screams from her laptop speaker, the crowd downstairs erupting louder, her campaign team crying in the hallway, hugging, and Aiah’s face on the screen lighting up like the sun itself. But Jhoanna just sat there. Her lips parted. Her hands trembled. And then, slowly, tears began to fall.

“Hey,” Aiah’s voice softened. “Baby… talk to me.”

Jhoanna shook her head, trying to wipe her cheeks, but the sob was already forming in her throat. “I—” Her voice cracked. “I won.”

Aiah smiled, her own eyes glassy now. “You did. You really did.”

“I—” Jhoanna swallowed, her voice thick. “I’m the mayor now, Aiah. I’m the mayor of this city.”

“Yes, you are,” Aiah said proudly, one hand on her heart. “Madam Mayor. My girlfriend. The love of my life.” That last part made Jhoanna’s breath hitch again.

She covered her mouth, overwhelmed. “Oh my God,” she whispered, still trying to steady herself. “My heart is so full. Aiah… I’m so happy. Not just because I won, of course, but because…” She took a deep breath. “Because I’m here. Because you’re still here.”

Aiah bit her lip, her smile tender. “I never really left. Parang I just needed time to find my way back.”

“I’m glad you did,” Jhoanna whispered.

The celebration around them continued in full force—staff popping soda cans in lieu of champagne, friends screaming into pillows, social media already buzzing with the win—but on that video call, there was only stillness. Intimacy. The world around them may have changed, but this remained.

“Thank you,” Jhoanna said after a long pause. “Thank you for everything. Even before all of this. Since college, you’ve always believed in me. Even when I didn’t believe in myself. Even when things got messy.”

Aiah nodded, wiping at her own cheeks now. “You always deserved this. And I’m so proud of you. So, so proud.”

Jhoanna let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t even know what to do next.”

“Well,” Aiah smiled, “You can start by winning me back properly.”

Jhoanna’s eyes twinkled through the tears. “I think I already did.”

They stayed on the call until the sun fully rose, the world welcoming a new leader—and maybe, a love that never really died, only waited.

The sun was mercilessly bright, and the marble steps of city hall glinted under the weight of its heat. But no one cared—not the crowd that had gathered at the heart of the plaza, not the marching band sweating in their tight uniforms, not even the students waving their tiny flags or the vendors selling iced gulaman in styrofoam cups.

Today was not an ordinary day. Today was the day Santa Maria swore in its youngest mayor in history.

Jhoanna stood behind the podium on the makeshift stage at the foot of the city hall steps. She was dressed in a tailored cream barong that softened her usually sharp silhouette, paired with dark slacks and heels that made her stand just a bit taller. The sun was in her eyes, but she didn’t blink. Not once. Behind her stood her team, her family, city officials, barangay captains, and even a few of her professors from undergrad. Her mother stood with tears in her eyes, and beside her, her mother were already taking videos for documentation, grinning wide. Aiah wasn’t part of the formal delegation. She didn’t want to be. She said she wanted to be in the crowd—“Gusto ko lang makita ka from afar muna. Baka ma-distract ka masyado kapag may katabi kang maganda.”

But Jhoanna knew she was out there. Somewhere.

The mayoral oath had already been completed minutes ago—right hand raised, the city seal behind her, her voice steady through every line. The applause had been thunderous. But now, the real moment began. Her first speech as Mayor Robles. The microphones picked up the soft hum of feedback before her voice began, calm and certain.

“Good morning, Santa Maria,” she said, pausing to let the applause fade a little. “Grabe, ang dami niyo ngayon, and I’m so thankful that you’re all here. I know it’s hot. I know the campaign season probably tired you all out—pero andito kayo, and I’m very grateful.”

The crowd murmured with laughter and cheers. She took a deep breath. “Most of you know me already. I grew up here. I’ve knocked on your doors, sat in your tricycles, ate in your carinderias, and spent more than half of my life memorizing the roads of this city.”

“At alam ko rin po na kilala niyo rin ako bilang anak ni dating Congressman Robles.”

There was a collective murmur of recognition. Her father’s name was legacy. History. A man known for both progress and politics.

“For years, people called me “anak ni Congressman Robles.” I was proud of that. I love my father so much. He served this city well. But today, I ask you—please see me not just as his daughter, but as a leader with my own voice. My own vision. My own dreams for Santa Maria.”

“At ngayon,” she said, her voice steadier now, “Hayaan niyo po akong magpakilala. Not as his daughter. Not as his shadow.”

She paused, inhaled deeply. “My name is Jhoanna Christine Robles. I am twenty-eight years old. I’m a public administration graduate. I was once a student journalist, a community volunteer, and someone who believed that local governance is not just about systems, but about people.”

People clapped again. Some even stood up. She went on, “I ran for mayor not just because I wanted to win. I ran because I believe that governance must be rooted in compassion. In transparency. In justice. Gusto ko pong linawin muli ang aking mga plataporma—affordable healthcare for all districts, full transparency for government spending, free mental health programs for our youth, and a stronger campaign against corruption.”

“Hindi ako narito para lang ituloy ang naiwan ng aking ama. I’m not here just to inherit a seat. I’m here to build something new, something better. And I hope—sana po—you’ll start seeing me for me. Not for who raised me. Not for who I used to be. But for who I am. And for who I’m trying to become.”

The cheers were louder now. From somewhere in the middle of the crowd, a voice shouted, “We love you, Mayor Jhoanna!”

She laughed softly. “I love you all, too.”

She looked at the crowds. Her eyes found someone. Aiah. Wearing a white button-down tucked into denim jeans, hair tied back in a low ponytail, oversized sunglasses half-slipped down her nose, and a soft smile playing on her lips. She wasn’t waving. She wasn’t shouting And for a moment, the noise melted away—the cameras, the supporters, the heat pressing against her collarbones. There was just her and the love of her life, and in the sea of waving hands, in the camera flashes and the heat, in the chaos of applause—her eyes only saw Aiah. The girl she once shared coffee with at the cheap coffee shop, who argued with her over land reform policies until 2 AM, who loved her like poetry and left like a storm. The girl she kissed in the dark again, weeks ago, and who still stood there, still looked at her like the world had never changed.

Jhoanna swallowed hard. “I don’t know what the next years will look like,” she said softly. “But I promise to serve with honesty. With empathy. With love—not just for this city, but for every single person who believes in it.”

Aiah mouthed something to her. “Proud of you.”

Jhoanna smiled softly—an entirely different kind of smile. The kind that only Aiah ever really got from her. The kind that said, You’re the reason I survived all of this. She turned back to the mic, clearing her throat a little.

“Before I end,” she said, blinking back the sudden sting of tears, “I want to thank one last person.”

Her voice trembled—not from nerves, but from sincerity. “She’s not on this stage. She doesn’t want to be. She’s down there, in the crowd, somewhere. But she’s one of the reasons I’m standing here right now. She believed in me when I didn’t. She supported me, challenged me, called me out, and never let me forget who I was.” A gasp rippled through the crowd. Jhoanna didn’t care.

“I hope she knows this is for her too. And no matter where life takes us next, this city—my love for this city—is only stronger because I once loved her. And maybe I still do.” There were no cheers now. Just stunned, in awe.

Jhoanna stepped away from the podium, heart pounding. She didn’t wait for the formal exit. She walked straight down the steps of the stage, past her bodyguards, past the photographers, past everyone—and went straight to Aiah. The crowd parted like waves, and when she reached her, she didn’t even hesitate. She held Aiah’s face in both hands, smiled through the tears, and whispered, “I told you I’d win.”

Aiah chuckled, eyes wet. “I told you it’s hot to have a mayor girlfriend.”

They laughed, and they kissed. Not the hidden kind. Not a stolen one. But a kiss in front of everyone—press, voters, families, even the old man selling kwek-kwek at the corner. And for once, Santa Maria didn’t gossip. They clapped. Because maybe love, like politics, is just about showing up. And this time, they showed up for each other.

“Jhoanna, baby, please. Can you stop being the mayor for, like, five minutes lang?”

Aiah’s voice was muffled against Jhoanna’s shoulder as she stood behind her, arms wrapped around her waist like a stubborn backpack. Jhoanna, seated at her City Hall office desk, didn’t even look up from the document she was reviewing—something about pending permits in Barangay Esperanza, with red stamps and urgent sticky notes from the City Planning Office.

Jhoanna let out a quiet chuckle, her pen still scratching the margins. “Love, gusto mo bang ma-suspend ako? ‘Cause that’s how we get suspended.”

Aiah whined, louder this time. “Ugh, grabe ka. One year na since you won, tapos parang I’m dating an Excel sheet.”

This time, Jhoanna put the pen down. She turned in her seat slowly to face Aiah, who was now pouting dramatically—wearing a cream blazer and black slacks, a proper corporate girl with a playful glint in her eye and the clinginess of someone dangerously bored. Her bag was tossed on the nearby couch like she had stormed into the mayor’s office the minute her own case wrapped up.

“Why are you here ba? I know you’re supposed to be at work around this time,” Jhoanna asked, raising an eyebrow but smiling softly. “Nagulat ako you just came barging at my door.”

“I missed you. Tapos nagulat ako may 2-hour free time ako today, so I came here. Legal visit ‘to, by the way. I’m checking if you’re still alive.”

Jhoanna leaned back, arms crossed. “Do I look dead to you?”

“You look hot, pero you also look like you haven’t blinked in 3 hours. Baby, please, kahit five minutes lang. Cuddle break lang, oh.”

There was a pause. Jhoanna looked at the clock on her desk—3:00 PM. Her meeting with the Vice Mayor wasn’t until 4. The paper she was reviewing could wait.

Fine.

She sighed dramatically and opened her arms. “Sige na nga. Come here na, clingy baby.”

Aiah practically squealed, climbing onto her lap with zero shame, arms winding around her neck, burying her face against her skin like she was trying to memorize her scent again. Jhoanna melted a little.

It had been like this lately. A year into her mayorship, and every day still felt like a whirlwind of events—ribbon cuttings, barangay hearings, policy reviews, budget meetings. Every time she thought she could finally breathe, another stack of folders would appear on her desk like a cruel magic trick. She loved her job. She truly did. It filled her with purpose. But sometimes, she forgot what it felt like to just be Jhoanna—the Jhoanna who once sat in the university café with a worn-out denim jacket and dreams of change. The Jhoanna who once kissed Aiah near the creek after a campaign, heart pounding, campaign flyers forgotten in her bag.

“You know,” Aiah mumbled against her, “I super get it. Na very busy ka. I’m not mad naman.”

“I know you’re not,” Jhoanna murmured, stroking her back gently. “Pero minsan din… I wish may clone ako. One to be mayor, one to be your girlfriend full-time.”

Aiah leaned back to look at her, nose wrinkled. “Ew. No, thanks. I only want this one. Clones are creepy.”

Jhoanna laughed, her first real laugh that day. “Okay, deal. Walang clone. But I swear, after this week, I’ll take a day off. Just us. Pahinga.”

Aiah’s eyes lit up. “Promise?”

“Promise. Pinky swear pa kung gusto mo.”

They hooked pinkies like high schoolers, giggling like fools. The light through the windows warmed their skin, the sounds of the city muffled by the thick walls of the mayor’s office. It felt like a pocket of peace—just the two of them, suspended between schedules and responsibilities, choosing each other even for just a little while.

“I love you, Madam Mayor,” Aiah whispered.

Jhoanna smiled and kissed her forehead. “I love you more, Attorney Arceta.”

And just like that, for the next five minutes, Jhoanna stopped being the mayor of Santa Maria. She was just Tintin—soft and in love, holding the girl who never stopped choosing her.