The way she looks at him was different from how she looked at anything at all.
Sometimes she sees him, talking and walking about on set, and he could talk to someone as much as he wants on any subject, but however interesting or boring, she could never consciously register the content of their conversation into her mind. She is never this unsure of her own feelings, as she starts to fall for him, falling deeper and deeper into this abyss of more confusion and intensity. Something tells her she is wrong, dead wrong about him, and something else tells her to go after him, as if he were ever constant in her world of so many changes, so many events flying by, the speedy clicks and flashes of the camera. As if the bright hot lights of the set dimmed and allow her eyes to settle on him, where he stands now.
There’s nothing she can do, except to look on in expectation, the audience waiting for even perhaps a rhetorical question, from which no answer could be given to her response.