Those weeks cloistered together in the house, alone, unable to leave or receive guests, having to sneak into the garden for fresh air and a bit of food, were perhaps the most profound honeymoon anyone could ask for. We packed a few years into a couple of months. We roamed inside each other—our memories, insecurities, and dreams. We explored each other’s bodies, inching toward an enchanted precipice that was both frightening and irresistible. Behind me, he ran his fingers along the scar on my back.

“Is this it?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He took his time kissing all my parts, his lips lingering around the scar. Bilal changed everything, rearranged my world. I think it was the first time I desired a man truly. My body desired him emotionally, psychologically, intellectually, and, at last, physically.

We made love many times before we made love. Our bodies often melted together when he read to me, when we kissed, talked, hugged, undressed, bathed, slept. And when it finally happened, when he slid inside of me, I fell into the sublime abyss of him. The rush of fire through me made me sob.

“Shall I stop?” he said.

“No,” I whispered, still crying. He kissed me hungrily, pushing himself deeper into me. I consumed him and learned a sexual yearning made insatiable by love so vast, as if a sky.

We barely left our bed for the next few days. We read, listened to the radio, watched television, made food, ate and bathed together. Ariel Sharon was still laying waste to the country. Now they were invading the refugee camp of Jenin. Bilal was on and off the phone with comrades, speaking in code, planning from powerlessness. Then we made love again. We found ways to love despite his physical limitations, which frustrated him but not me. I was almost grateful for it, because each time he could not have an erection or an orgasm, it seemed to push us closer, deeper into love and trust. Five million people like us were locked inside their homes, and perhaps they too were oscillating between rage and love.

It is not easy for me to speak of those weeks of my life without slipping into clichés, mostly because I don’t have the right language. I don’t have sufficient words to explain how thoroughly and exquisitely I unraveled in love.

I know, even now in the Cube, that he stayed with me, unseen, loving me still. I know the things they told me about him weren’t true. I know he didn’t give me up. I know. I know. And that knowing will not yield, not even now in this unnatural gray place.