‘I bumped into the man who ghosted me — and took the power back by confronting him’

After Ollie* disappeared off the face of the Earth with no explanation, I fantasised about what I would say to him if I had the chance. Maybe no words would be needed, and I could say everything I wanted with a scathing look instead. Or maybe I would see him across the room at a bar and embrace my inner romcom heroine by throwing an expensive drink in his face.

I was never expecting this fantasy to become a reality, though. So when I happened to run into him in the middle of the street outside London’s Victoria station just two weeks after he ghosted me, I was immediately panic-stricken. But it felt too serendipitous to not seize the opportunity.

While I might be one of the unlucky (or is it lucky?) few to actually bump into their ghosters, I doubt I’m the only person to have dreamt about it. The bad dating behaviour is now so common that, according to one UK survey, 26% percent of women and 25% of men who use dating apps have been ghosted. Other surveys suggest this number is even higher, with a 2023 poll finding that 76% of people had either ghosted or been ghosted, while in a 2020 study, it was actually as high as 85%. A straw poll of my friends suggests it’s much closer to the latter.

There are, of course, different levels to ghosting — and opinion varies on when, if ever, it’s acceptable. Some think it’s fine if you’ve chatted online but haven’t yet met up (admittedly, I’ve done this before), or even after one date (not okay, IMO). But if you’ve slept together or, even worse, been seeing each other for weeks or months? Absolutely not. And yet it continues to happen. Dating apps have certainly made the phenomenon more common by feel like an online game. But the person on the other end of the phone is a person — and they deserve a response, even if it’s not what they want to hear.

The lack of one, as most of us know from experience, can be a horrible, heartbreaking feeling. It can make you over-analyse how you behaved, how you dressed, what you said. But there seems to be an unwritten rule that, once ghosted, you just have to accept it. Rarely do people confront their ghoster. I guess this is partly due to logistics: it’s unlikely that you’ll have the chance to in real life, and sending another text into the spectral ether feels pointless. If they’ve already ignored you, a confrontational message probably won’t jolt them back to life.

In my case, I wasn’t necessarily sad that Ollie had ghosted me — we hadn’t known each other long enough for that — but I was flabbergasted by his rudeness.

We’d met on a dating app, and had a couple fun and flirty evenings, one of which ended with him coming back to mine. Afterwards, I thought I’d like to see him again. And he seemed keen too, even suggesting future date ideas. When he left, he said: "See you soon. I’ll text you."

A couple of days went by and I heard nothing. I sent a short message. He didn’t reply. That weekend, I posted a series of Instagram stories, and he watched every single one. At this point, instead of assuming I’d been ghosted, I thought it might have been a mistake — maybe my message never delivered? Maybe he opened it during a busy moment at work and forgotten I’d sent it? — so I sent another message a week later. No reply.

I was in disbelief. Sure, it’s never nice to be rejected, but I’d much rather get a lame excuse than silence. Tell me work is intense. Tell me your hay fever is bad. Tell me your dog has died. I wasn’t asking for much: a single text would have sufficed.

I spent the next fortnight of my spare time seeing friends for drinks, doing barre and box-fit classes, and, yes, swiping again on Hinge — all the while those two unanswered messages were still playing on my mind. Then, exactly two weeks since we’d last seen each other, I hopped off the bus near my office and there, standing ten feet in front of me, was Ollie. I did a double-take.

My heart raced and my mind went into overdrive, anxious that he might see me but pretend not to, mortifying me all over again. Unfortunately for Ollie, on that particular morning it only took me a moment to switch gears and realise that this was exactly what I’d been waiting for. I knew I’d regret it if I let the moment slip away without saying my piece (it helped that I was having a particularly good hair day). We were walking directly towards each other with a few feet of space in between us, so I only had a split second to decide how best to approach it — the charm offensive, or angry lecture? I marched diagonally over with a dangerous smile on my face, thinking the right move was somewhere between the two.

"Hi, Ollie," I said. He hadn’t seen me coming, but whipped his head up at hearing his name.

"Oh Lizzie, hi. Sorry, I owe you a text, don’t I?" he said. His eyes had flashed with alarm when he registered it was me, but he’d quickly transitioned to calm and collected. I could sense an excuse was coming. "Sorry, been really busy."

I didn’t hold back. "Actually Ollie, I think what happened is that you slept with me and then you ghosted me."

"Uh..." he began.

But I wasn’t finished: "Yes. We had sex, I texted you, you ignored me. Repeat. Do you feel good about that?"

His eyes widened: "Oh, um, I’m so sorry. It’s just... Do you have time to get a coffee so I can explain myself?"

I laughed. "No, I’m on my way to work — and I don’t want to."

I remembered him telling me how lucky he felt to have a sister, because it had taught him to be a more respectful man. I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but this particular detail had wriggled under my skin and I could feel it there, gnawing away. Was this how he would want his sister to be treated?

Before I knew it, the words were tumbling out of my mouth. "Oh and that thing you said about how having a sister has made you more respectful? What. A load. Of shit." I wish I’d been more witty or eloquent, but I didn’t have a team of scriptwriters behind me to workshop that specific moment: this was just a chance encounter that I knew I wasn’t going to get again.

"I know," he said, suddenly taking the whole thing more seriously. "I really am sorry. I don’t normally do this. And I do really want to explain myself. Let’s go for a coffee next week. Please?" He took a step towards me. He did seem sincere, but, then again, he had before when he said he’d text.

"Fine," I said. "Well, maybe — I don’t know. I’ve got to go." I walked past him, the exhilaration of the moment pulling me forward. I felt incredible. I hadn’t had an expensive drink in my hand to throw in his face, but on reflection, that was probably a good thing. The important bit was that I’d had my chance to say what I needed to say — and I’d said it.

As I continued on my way to work, I couldn’t stop smiling. I may have even skipped a little. I’d left him there, dumbfounded and staring after me with the swirl of commuters rushing past him. I sensed that I’d managed to show him that his actions (or lack thereof) had been cowardly and rude. Later, when I told my friends that I’d seen the man who’d ghosted me and chosen to confront him, I was proud. One actually gave me a high five.

Since that day, I’ve thought a lot about the concept of ghosting and why it feels so cruel. It’s not just the fact that the other person hasn’t deemed you important enough to take a few seconds to let you know they’re no longer interested in you, it’s that they rob you of the opportunity to say how you feel. It diminishes your worth, and casts you into the role of the scorned party. As soon as I confronted Ollie, these feelings melted away. I had reclaimed the right to my own story.

As a lifelong romcom fan (hello, I’ve even written a whole book about my love of the genre and its impact on my life), I have a habit of romanticising my love life. That chance moment with Ollie on a sunny spring morning reminded me of the pivotal scene in every romcom where the heroine finally confronts or rejects the lover who’s treated her poorly; a moment which shows us that our main character values herself more than the pursuit of romantic love. I adore these moments because they’re often silly, entertaining and outrageous. It’s never just a quietly sad conversation in a generic coffee shop soundtracked by a bad playlist; there’s two punches and a knee to the groin at prom, or a killer line with a jaw drop and a turn of the heel. And these moments are empowering — and encouraging, too. In a genre that is so much about getting the guy, these scenes remind us that some people just aren’t worth it.

The same is true in dating today. Whichever buzzword phenomenon you’re dealing with — whether that’s ghosting, breadcrumbing, zombieing, the list goes on — you have to know your own worth, and not let some fool make you feel any less. I have no qualms now about being vulnerable and letting someone know how they made me feel. I used to think that might make me pathetic, but now I know it makes me stronger.

In the weeks and months after we bumped into each other, Ollie and I did exchange a few messages. He listed off the reasons why he hadn’t replied: work stress, an ex-girlfriend, a mortgage problems. More excuses, really. But by then, it didn’t matter to me anymore — I already had my closure. It’s been five years since that moment and I don’t have a single bad feeling towards him now. The truth is I wasn’t that invested, and I don’t think he ever meant to be rude or cruel. He simply took the easy route out, as so many daters these days do. I’d like to think he wouldn’t do it again, though.

At the very least, maybe he’ll think of me next time — stomping over to him outside Victoria station — and decide that a text really is the easier option.

*Name has been changed

Lizzie Frainier is the associate travel editor at The Times and The Sunday Times and author of dating memoir Main Character: Lessons from a Real-Life Romcom , out February 6.