Yuhibbunahum Kahubbillah Wallazina Amanuu Ashaddu Hubban: Lillah -al-baqarah 165-

One night, Layla left. Not cruelly—just her own road took her elsewhere. Zayd collapsed. He cried out to the empty room: “You were my god, and you have abandoned me.”

So Zayd began to practice a strange discipline: every time he felt his heart attach to something fleeting—a person, a dream, a possession—he would pause and say: “You are beautiful, but you are not God. I love you, but I love Him more.” Years passed. He became known not as a cold ascetic, but as someone whose love for others was —no clinging, no possessiveness, no devastation when things changed. Because his root was firm. His branches could sway. One night, Layla left

One day, Layla returned. She found him at peace. She asked, “Do you still love me?” He cried out to the empty room: “You

He realized: the problem wasn’t loving Layla. The problem was loving her as if she were divine—eternal, flawless, the source of his existence. But she was a mirror, not the sun. Because his root was firm