My rug is a galaxy of wadded-up wrappers from all the Hershey’s Kisses I’ve inhaled. The new hat tops my head, the veil shrouds my shoulders, and my own constellation of stars sparkles above me. It doesn’t matter that I’ve read this Persephone redux no fewer than seven times last night. The comic is back on my lap, and I’m studying it this time with the detailed attention of a forensic anthropologist sifting through bones. For good reason: I can’t shake the feeling that I’m eavesdropping on all of my conversations with Josh. To fortify myself, I unwrap yet another Kiss and savor the sweetness that almost hurts my teeth.

First, there’s Persephone, fully clothed on the cover. As in: Real clothes drape the entire expanse of her body. Granted, her uniform is body conscious, but so are Auntie Ruth’s mechanic’s coveralls, not to mention Superman and Batman’s skintight bodysuits that leave exceptionally little to the imagination. This uniform turns Persephone into a revolutionary firefly: a blaze of bioluminescent light over a midnight-blue paratrooper jumpsuit. Modern and fierce in a way that would make both Zoë and River Tam from Firefly proud, this superhero glows.

Then there’s the moment that Persephone discovers that devices—phones, computers, the laser she uses to communicate with Planet X—are hazardous to her strength. Near the middle of the issue comes the devastating moment when her isolation hits her: alone, in the dark, and five billion kilometers from her closest kin. She hides that kryptonite sadness from everyone, living on Earth like she is one of us, even though she’s here to find her twin sister, who has gone missing in a meteor shower. Such are the perils of being twin intergalactic meteor-surfing sensations.

Along comes Oskar, a twentysomething, Thor-turned-astrophysicist who’s been tracking the Geminid meteor showers for geomagnetic anomalies. (Well done, nonscience guy.) He finds Persephone, crashed on an ice field, burning hot, even though she’s wearing a teeny, weeny bikini. He bundles Persephone into his superjeep, one with ridiculously oversize wheels, and slams over frozen lava fields and flies through rivers to get her to his home. Her head lolls back on the seat rest, her cheeks are flushed. She looks like she’s dying.

(Did I look that bad on the night of the Draconids?)

Finally, they make it to Oskar’s home while Persephone alternates between burning fire and freezing cold. To keep her warm, he tucks her under pelts of fur (which Josh will have to amend because if he thought the photosensitive were sensitive, just wait until the animal rights activists get ahold of this). (Seriously, the guy needs a crisis-trained editorial consultant.)

Josh (I mean, Oskar) tells me (I mean, Persephone), “It was my fault you almost died. I’m not letting you almost-die a second time.”

“Now you’re being idiotic.”

“I wrote about Santorini. The vampires there almost killed you.”

“Sorry to break this to you,” she snaps at him, “but you’re not the boss of me. I sent myself there.”

“Why go back? The vampires have rallied. You might die … again.”

“Because.”

“Because you’re more than a surfer of the stars.”

Persephone looks stunned, then accepting. “I am. But what if I get sick again?”

There is one large box where the two of them stare at each other wordlessly, a long moment of silence. The one box turns into two smaller ones, then three tiny ones. It’s an epic long staring match, almost as long as our twenty nights of silence. What neither of them expects is the magnitude of their geomagnetic disturbances whenever they’re within kissing distance of each other.

See also: chemistry.

Finally, Oskar breaks the silence and says, “Well, then you’ll need to wear more than that if you’re going to save the world.”

“Are you body shaming me?” Persephone says.

“Uniform shaming.”

Even as my heart aches a little because the banter between them (us) is so familiar, I still snort. (Then, I wonder, logically, how the heck did Oskar procure a new light-up uniform for her, a mystery that remains unexplained in the comic for now.)

Then there’s Persephone’s last line to Oskar before they fall into each other’s arms: “I’ve only felt this comfortable with one other person in the world.” The next morning, Persephone traces the tattoo of the Gemini constellation on Oskar’s back while he sleeps. She is racked with guilt for being distracted from her mission, for replacing her sister even briefly, for falling for this man, for wondering if Oskar is who he says he is.

I pause right at this point to research the Geminids. These meteors originate from the constellation Gemini, Latin for twins. Twins, like Josh and his brother, Caleb.

The comic drops from my lap to the floor.

I’ve only felt this comfortable with one other person in the world. That’s what Josh had admitted to me the night of our own meteor shower. Had he meant his twin? I flip back to the page where Persephone traces the Geminids on Oskar’s back. Did Josh feel guilty because he thought I had somehow replaced Caleb? (And was he foreshadowing that Oskar might actually be Ultraviolent Reyes?)

In the last panel, Persephone slips into the starlit darkness. Unbeknownst to her, Oskar trails closely behind. She takes to the stars; he takes to the sky, following her into the dark.