How Does 'Everyone In This Room Will Someday Be Dead' Handle Mortality?

I've been obsessed with 'Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead' since it hit the shelves, and its popularity makes complete sense once you dive in. The book tackles heavy themes like existential dread and mental health with this weirdly comforting humor that makes you laugh while your heart aches. Gilda, the protagonist, is this beautifully flawed, anxiety-ridden mess who feels painfully real—like someone you'd meet at a depressing coffee shop. Her internal monologue is so raw and relatable that you can't help but root for her even when she's making terrible decisions. The novel's genius lies in how it balances darkness with absurdity. Gilda's morbid fascination with death and her spiraling thoughts about doom could easily feel overwhelming, but the author injects these moments of unexpected levity. The way she interacts with other characters, especially the elderly folks at the retirement home where she works, creates this bittersweet dynamic that keeps the story from tipping into pure despair. It's a rare book that makes you think about mortality without leaving you completely drained. Instead, it leaves you weirdly hopeful, like maybe it's okay to be a mess sometimes. What really seals the deal is how the book doesn't offer easy answers. Gilda doesn't magically fix her life by the end, and that's the point. The authenticity of her struggle resonates with readers who are tired of stories where mental health issues are neatly resolved. The popularity stems from its honesty—it's a book that acknowledges how messy life is while still finding beauty in the chaos.

I recently picked up 'Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead' expecting a light read, but it turned out to be so much more layered. The book defies easy categorization—it’s a dark comedy with a heavy dose of existential dread, wrapped in a mystery-thriller shell. The protagonist’s anxiety-ridden internal monologue gives it strong psychological fiction vibes, while the morbid humor and absurd situations lean into satire. It’s like if 'The Bell Jar' had a cynical, millennial cousin who worked at a Catholic church. The author plays with genre expectations brilliantly, using the mystery plot as a vehicle to explore mental health, mortality, and the absurdity of human connections. What makes it stand out is how it balances tones. One moment you’re laughing at the protagonist’s deadpan observations about her grim job at a church, the next you’re gut-punched by her spiraling thoughts about death. The quasi-detective storyline—where she investigates a dead woman’s emails while barely keeping her own life together—adds this addictive page-turner quality. It’s not pure horror, but the existential terror lurking beneath everyday moments gives it a haunting quality. I’d call it literary fiction first, with genre elements woven in to disorient you, much like the main character’s fragmented psyche.

The protagonist in 'Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead' is Gilda, a deeply relatable yet painfully anxious young woman struggling with existential dread and social isolation. Gilda’s character stands out because she’s not your typical hero—she’s messy, awkward, and constantly overthinking every interaction, which makes her feel incredibly human. The book follows her as she stumbles into a job at a Catholic church by accident, pretending to be someone she’s not, while grappling with her own mortality and the absurdity of life. What makes Gilda so compelling is how her internal monologue captures the chaos of anxiety—her thoughts spiral from mundane worries to existential crises in seconds. The author paints her with such raw honesty that you can’t help but root for her, even as she makes cringe-worthy decisions. Gilda’s journey isn’t about grand adventures; it’s about the small, painful, and sometimes hilarious moments of trying to exist in a world that feels overwhelmingly fragile. What’s fascinating is how Gilda’s perspective shapes the entire narrative. Her fear of death isn’t just a personal quirk—it colors how she sees everything, from her interactions with coworkers to her awkward attempts at romance. The book doesn’t offer easy answers or neat resolutions, which feels true to life. Gilda’s struggles with mental health are portrayed with empathy but never sugarcoated. She’s a protagonist who stays with you long after the book ends, partly because she feels so real. Her humor is dark but genuine, and her vulnerabilities make her one of the most authentic characters I’ve encountered in contemporary fiction.

I picked up 'Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead' expecting something dark and eerie, given the title, but it’s not a horror novel in the traditional sense. It’s more of a darkly comedic existential drama with a heavy dose of anxiety. The protagonist, Gilda, is a queer woman grappling with mortality, mental health, and the absurdity of life, which makes the story feel unsettling but not in a jump-scare way. The horror here is existential—it’s the dread of everyday life, the fear of irrelevance, and the quiet terror of being trapped in your own mind. The book’s brilliance lies in how it turns mundane situations into something profoundly uncomfortable, like Gilda’s job at a Catholic church where she impersonates a dead woman. It’s creepy, sure, but in a 'laugh-so-you-don’t-cry' way rather than a 'check-under-your-bed' way. The closest it gets to horror is its unflinching look at human fragility. Gilda’s panic attacks and obsessive thoughts about death are visceral, almost claustrophobic, but they’re grounded in realism. There are no monsters here—just the terrifying ordinary. The title isn’t a threat; it’s a fact. That’s what sticks with you. The novel’s tone is more aligned with authors like Ottessa Moshfegh or Samantha Irby, where humor and despair are two sides of the same coin. If you’re looking for ghosts or gore, you’ll be disappointed. But if you want a story that lingers like a shadow, making you question your own mortality over a cup of coffee, this nails it.

Reading 'Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead' was like walking through a dark forest with occasional patches of sunlight—unexpectedly funny in the bleakest moments. The protagonist's morbid thoughts about death and existential dread are delivered with such dry wit that you catch yourself laughing before realizing how heavy the subject matter is. The humor isn't slapstick or loud; it's quiet, sharp, and woven into the fabric of her anxiety. Like when she imagines her own funeral while stuck in small talk at a party, or how she casually considers the statistical likelihood of everyday objects killing her. It's the kind of humor that makes you nod in grim recognition rather than burst out laughing. The book's dark comedy shines brightest in its juxtaposition of mundane life with existential terror. Office politics become absurd when viewed through the lens of inevitable oblivion, and dating woes take on a surreal hilarity when paired with thoughts about decomposition. What makes it work is how genuine it feels—the character isn't trying to be funny, which makes her observations even more piercing. The humor never undermines the real struggles of mental illness but instead acts as a coping mechanism, both for the character and the reader. It's a masterclass in balancing tone, making devastating points while keeping you weirdly entertained.

In 'Maybe Someday', the ending is emotionally charged yet satisfying. Ridge and Sydney finally overcome their complicated circumstances—deafness, past relationships, and emotional barriers—to fully embrace their love. After Ridge breaks up with Maggie, realizing their relationship was built more on obligation than passion, he confesses his feelings to Sydney. The novel culminates in a heartfelt moment where Ridge writes a song for Sydney, symbolizing their deep connection beyond words. The epilogue fast-forwards five years, showing them happily married with a child. Sydney’s career as a songwriter flourishes, and Ridge continues performing, now with Sydney by his side. The resolution ties up their artistic partnership and personal growth beautifully. It’s a testament to how love can transcend obstacles, especially when two people are willing to fight for it. The music they create together becomes a metaphor for their harmony in life.

I've read 'Maybe Someday' multiple times, and the ending always leaves me with mixed emotions. Without spoiling too much, it’s bittersweet but leans toward hopeful. The characters go through intense emotional struggles, and their growth feels authentic. Some readers might crave a perfectly happy ending, but the resolution here is more realistic—relationships aren’t always black and white. The story wraps up with a sense of closure, though not everyone gets what they initially wanted. The beauty lies in how it mirrors real life. Love isn’t just about grand gestures; sometimes it’s about sacrifices and unspoken understanding. The ending respects the characters’ journeys, making it satisfying in its own way. If you’re looking for unicorns and rainbows, this might not fit, but if you appreciate depth and nuance, you’ll find it rewarding.

In 'Maybe Someday', Sydney's journey is a rollercoaster of emotions, but she ultimately finds love with Ridge. Their connection starts as a deep, musical bond—Sydney moves in with Ridge after discovering her boyfriend’s betrayal, and their shared passion for songwriting ignites something special. Despite Ridge’s initial reluctance due to his existing relationship, their chemistry is undeniable. The story explores love’s complexities—loyalty, guilt, and raw honesty—before they finally choose each other. What makes their pairing compelling isn’t just romance but how they challenge and inspire one another creatively. Ridge’s musical genius complements Sydney’s lyrical talent, creating a partnership that feels destined. The book’s emotional climax solidifies them as endgame, proving some connections are worth the heartache. Their relationship isn’t perfect; Ridge’s deafness adds layers of vulnerability and strength, while Sydney’s resilience shines through her struggles. The author crafts their dynamic with care, avoiding clichés. It’s refreshing to see a love story where music speaks louder than words, and personal growth matters as much as passion. By the end, Sydney and Ridge aren’t just together—they’re better versions of themselves, harmonizing in life and art.