I walked until I reached the band, their music a muted backdrop to the swirling emotions within me.
A crisp white handkerchief appeared before me. I took it, the cool fabric a welcome contrast to the heat rising in my cheeks. Looking up, I saw Rodrigo Duterte.
“I’m sorry they made you cry,” he said, his voice softer than I expected. "Now, can I make you smile?"
I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time truly seeing him beyond the initial impression of a boisterous, self-assured man.
He raised his mustache, a deliberate, almost comical gesture—a slow, upward curl of his lip, then a slight twitch of his nose, as if he were testing its flexibility.
It was absurd, unexpected, and utterly disarming. I couldn't help but smile. It was a small smile, at first, but it widened
