I could tell something was off when the recruiter stopped replying to my emails.
At first, I assumed it was just the usual delay—people get busy, right?
But as days stretched into weeks of silence, frustration began to simmer. I wasn’t just some random applicant tossing my resume into a black hole.
I was perfect for the position, and I was sure the recruiter knew it.
At least, I thought she did.
So, why the radio silence?
I wasn’t the type to sit around and accept being ignored.
If she wasn’t going to respond, then I would have to take matters into my own hands.
And it worked.
I’ll never forget what happened.
Ghosted: But Why?
It all started like any promising job lead—excitement, anticipation, the feeling that my next big move was within reach.
I’d been searching for a new consulting opportunity abroad, and the recruiter seemed to have found the perfect match. A foreign company, a big project, and they were looking for someone just like me.
At least, that’s what she had said in our first call.
The conversation had been smooth. She assured me I was a top candidate, and that the company was excited to see my resume.
I spent hours polishing up my profile, answered every question she had, and sent over the necessary documents.
Everything felt like it was falling into place. My future was about to take off.
Then, nothing.
At first, I shrugged it off as a missed email. A couple of days later, I sent a quick follow-up—light, professional.
Still nothing. Another week passed, and my concern turned into frustration. I left a voicemail, polite but firm, trying to nudge her into action.
When even that went unanswered, frustration boiled over into anger.
Had I done something wrong? Had she found a better candidate? Or—and this thought really got under my skin—did she just not care? The more time passed, the more the silence felt like a personal insult.
But, I wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers.
Tossing the Dice
Letting the recruiter’s silence dictate my fate wasn’t an option. So, I made a bold move: I decided to bypass her entirely.
If she wasn’t going to respond, I’d go straight to the source—the company itself.
A bit of online digging led me to the hiring manager’s email address. It felt risky, sure, but what did I have to lose at this point?
I spent hours crafting the perfect email, making sure to highlight my experience and how I could hit the ground running on their project.
No mention of the recruiter—why complicate things? This was a fresh start.
The next morning, I woke up to an email waiting in my inbox. My heart raced as I opened it, half-expecting a polite rejection or, worse, no response at all.
It was an invitation to discuss further. I’d done it. I had their attention.
The following weeks were a blur of interviews, calls, and negotiations—all directly with the company. The recruiter had been completely cut out of the loop.
And just like that, I was offered the job. Not just any job—the job, the very one the recruiter had dangled in front of me before vanishing.
As I packed my bags for the move abroad, I couldn’t help but think about her. Had she realized by now what she’d missed? Maybe she was too busy, or maybe she just didn’t care.
Either way, I wanted her to know that I had landed on my feet without her help. So, I sent her a postcard.
It was simple: “Enjoying the view from the top. Hope all is well.” I imagined her opening it, puzzled at first, and then maybe a little annoyed. I didn’t expect a response. I thought that was the end of it.
But I was wrong.
Sweet Irony
Months passed, and life in my new role was better than I’d imagined.
And then, out of nowhere, she resurfaced.
It started with a brief, formal email suggesting we reconnect. Curiosity got the better of me, and despite my initial reluctance, I agreed to a video call.
When the call started, she smiled, looking a little more polished than I remembered. I was ready for some canned apology or maybe a fabricated excuse. What she said, though, caught me off guard.
“I’m really glad we could catch up,” she began, her voice carefully measured. “I owe you an apology for not getting back to you sooner. There was… a misunderstanding.”
I leaned forward. “What kind of misunderstanding?”
She hesitated, then admitted, “I assumed you had taken another offer. I thought you’d been hired by a rival company, so I didn’t want to waste your time with more follow-ups.”
I stared at her. “Wait—you thought I’d been hired elsewhere? That’s why you ghosted me?”
Her face flushed. “I didn’t mean to ghost you… I just miscalculated. By the time I realized you were still available, the position was filled.”
The irony hit me like a wave. Her assumption had cost her everything—a hefty commission, a top candidate, and possibly her credibility with a high-profile client.
After the call, I couldn’t help but laugh.
I thought back to the postcard I’d sent, thinking it was just a small, personal victory. Little did I know how perfectly it would land.
It wasn’t cruel, but it was certainly poetic.
In the end, her assumption had been her undoing, not mine. I had taken control of my future while she let a huge commission skip away.
Sometimes, revenge doesn’t need to be loud or flashy.
Sometimes, it’s simply knowing that the comeuppance has already been served.