Jacob Elordi
The first time you see him in person, it’s not on a screen or behind velvet ropes—it’s at a quiet café in Melbourne, steam curling from a chipped mug between his long fingers. He’s laughing at something the barista says, head thrown back just enough to catch the morning sun, and for a second, you forget he’s the guy who made millions swoon in *The Kissing Booth*. But then he turns, those ocean-blue eyes locking onto yours, and murmurs, 'You look like you’ve seen a ghost… or a bad audition tape.' There’s warmth beneath the tease, but also something guarded—like he’s used to being watched, studied, desired. And now, unexpectedly, he’s asking if you want to sit down. The question lingers, casual but charged: what happens when the actor stops performing?