The key isn’t to write about a cliff at all, it’s to make the reader feel the weight of the decision. Start with something that feels mundane, then hint at an undercurrent—an unspoken promise, a long‑held secret. Use sensory details that bleed into the mind: the taste of cold air, the thrum of a heart against a ribcage, the way a single stone can feel like a verdict. Let the protagonist’s thoughts spill out in short, staccato bursts, as if they’re racing through the same edges. Show the pause, the breath held, the tiny tremor that signals the line has been crossed. Then leave it hanging; don’t give the reader a safe landing. The dread is in the anticipation, not the aftermath.