PageTurner Translations

There is a kind of silence that isn’t just the absence of sound, but an entity in itself, a presence so heavy, so tactile, it presses against your chest and makes you wonder if this is what drowning feels like. It’s in the gaps between words, the breath you hold before saying something that might unravel everything. I’ve come to understand that silence is less an empty room and more an overstuffed drawer, filled with fragments of things we cannot bear to throw away. This realization doesn’t come all at once. It comes late, maybe when you’re sitting alone at a table set for two, staring at the seat across from you, waiting for someone who won’t come. It comes in the middle of a conversation where the pauses stretch too long, not out of comfort but hesitation, both of you weighing the cost of what comes next. It’s in the spaces where truth might live, if only we dared to let it out. I once read that silence can hold more than noise ever could, and I’ve found this to be true. Silence hold

It begins quietly, almost imperceptibly. Loneliness doesn’t announce itself with grand gestures or heavy footsteps. It seeps in like smoke under a door, curling around the edges of your thoughts, filling the spaces you didn’t know were empty. You try to breathe through it, but it clings to your lungs, making each inhalation feel heavier than the last. Loneliness isn’t just the absence of people, it’s the absence of connection. You can sit in a crowded room and feel it pressing against your chest, tighter and tighter, until you wonder if anyone notices you struggling to catch your breath. You smile, nod, and laugh at the right moments, all while feeling like a ghost haunting a life that no longer belongs to you. There was a time, not long ago, when I thought loneliness was a state you could escape with enough effort. I believed in distractions: busy schedules, endless to-do lists, phone calls to fill the silence. But distractions are slippery. They work for a while, and then suddenly, t

In life, there exists an undeniable rhythm, a pulsing current that moves us forward, sometimes dragging us along, sometimes allowing us to glide. This rhythm is marked by an unspoken truth: joy is fleeting, a spark that appears in the high-noon of triumph but flickers out in the twilight of our struggles. Sadness, however, is the companion that lingers. It doesn’t ask for your permission, doesn’t knock politely at the door. Sadness is there, always, waiting to wrap its familiar arms around you. I think of those moments when joy came to me, moments adorned with ribbons of laughter and garlands of achievement. The celebrations, the victories, the good news that felt almost too good to be true. Yet even in those moments, joy felt fragile, like a fragile glass bird perched on a windowsill. I couldn’t help but glance at it sideways, afraid it might shatter at the faintest gust of wind. And often, it did. The phone call with bad news came, the memory of a past mistake resurfaced, or the inex

They say the opposite of love is hate, but that’s too clean, too easy. Hate is noisy, hate demands attention. It burns hot, yes, but it still cares. It still looks for a reaction, still seeks the other in its destruction. Indifference, on the other hand, is cold, quiet, and absolute. It is the absence, not the inverse, of love. I’ve thought about this often, usually at times when love feels far away. There’s a peculiar kind of pain in realizing you’re not hated, just forgotten. Hate acknowledges your existence; it says, You mattered enough for me to feel this strongly. But indifference? Indifference is the erasure of all that, the closing of a door you didn’t even know was there. You can feel it most in the silences, I think. Not the charged silences of anger, when words hang unsaid in the air like a storm about to break, but the other kind. The kind where the space between two people becomes an unbridgeable chasm, not out of conflict, but apathy. The kind where you look at someone and

The Whole World Knows That the Crown Prince Loves Her As a formidable figure in the underworld that no one dared to provoke, Huang Quan had never imagined that she would be reborn! Huang Quan, the underworld boss, suddenly found herself reincarnated as the young lady of a declining aristocratic family in the Phoenix Empire. This lady was known for her delicate and fragile constitution, often out of breath after just a few steps, and she lacked spiritual roots, making it impossible for her to practice cultivation. She was widely regarded as a useless person in the capital city. Delicate and fragile? Unable to cultivate? Bullied by others? For her frail body, there was medical treatment. As for her inability to cultivate, she possessed a unique spiritual energy that could make all things flourish and bring life to the dead! As for being bullied, she had a straightforward solution—beat you till you cry! Huang Quan declared that she wasn’t afraid of any of the above. The only thing she was