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In a world where everyone seems to be reading psych thrillers like Gone Girl or The Silent Patient — books that grab your neck and twist it — here comes Anxious People, which sends chills down your spine by describing a hallway. Or a sandwich. And still makes you laugh your head off while you’re sitting there, wondering if you’re broken for laughing during a story about sadness and suicide and debt and disappointment.

And here’s the real kicker: this book doesn’t just make you feel. It teaches. It raises quiet, uncomfortably real questions about how we think, what we assume about others, and how flawed we all are — not in a tragic, Shakespearean way, but in a "forgetting-the-pin-code-on-your-card-at-the-checkout" way.

But that’s not even the best part.

The best part? It’s how Backman understands human relationships — not the fairy tale kind, not the messy drama kind either, but the ordinary, invisible kind. The kind that exists between two people trying their best in a world that never taught them how. The kind where you don’t say what you mean and still hope they get it. The kind where you’re just surviving — one fight, one compromise, one failed expectation at a time. I’m short of words to describe how much this book has taught me about love, about forgiveness, and about showing up even when you don’t know how.

And then… the eye opener. The part that stopped me in my tracks. When Backman writes about parenting:

“The truth is that the bank robber never intended to be a bank robber, and the hostage drama wasn’t supposed to be a drama at all. It was all just a series of incredibly stupid decisions, made by an extremely desperate human being, who happened to be a parent.”

That one stung.

Because that’s what this book does. It doesn’t throw dramatic one-liners at you. It whispers truths. Quietly. Casually. And suddenly you’re crying because a bank robber is telling you more about your parents than your parents ever did.

The suspense? Yes, it’s there — but no, it’s not the point. The real thrill is in the connection. Between strangers. Between parents and children. Between broken people trying to hold each other’s pieces in trembling hands.

And the characters — oh my God. Each one is delightfully annoying and deeply lovable. They’re all “idiots,” as the book reminds us, but in that wonderfully human way. My favourite? Jim, the old police officer. Gruff, quiet, and full of invisible love. You don’t even realise what a great father he is until his son Jack — the snarky, emotionally guarded younger cop — sees it. And feels it. And for once, says nothing. Because how do you put into words the moment you realise your father was quietly being your hero the whole time?

That, dear reader, is writing. That is character.

This isn’t a book that “shows” you things in vivid detail. It doesn’t paint big scenes or use overly dramatic language. What it does is far rarer — it transfers emotion. You feel everything. Irritation. Nausea. Delight. Fury. Sadness. Hope. All through subtle, understated prose and a circus of characters who somehow mirror parts of your soul.

In Anxious People, the story doesn’t take centre stage. The people do. Their quirks, their silences, their clumsy attempts to connect, to forgive, to survive. And isn’t that what life is anyway? A bunch of anxious people pretending to have it together?

So yes, this book is slow. Yes, it’s weird. And yes, you’ll want to throw it at a wall halfway through. But when you’re done, you’ll sit in silence, maybe hug someone. Maybe call your parents. Maybe forgive yourself for being a mess.

Everyone should read this book. Not because it’s perfect, but because it feels like what perfect actually is — messy, hilarious, heartbreaking, and deeply, undeniably human.