[That not caring seemed weird, strange, but everything about life had turned some shade of weird and strange in the last months, to the point where he didn't really question it or pay it more attention than a passing glance. A pen was picked up, spun between his fingers, nervous habit given life before he gave a shrug of an angular shoulder.]
No. Just. Trying to be considerate. Is it that strange?
[A fresh sheet of paper, white, glaringly so, full of possibilities that he couldn't seem to touch easily. It lay there, unblemished, the pen still capped, the writer still blocked.]