Use this sentence in an action/ romance novel:
"The dark waves churned below me, just as did my love for her. As I stood looking over the cliff, I knew what had to be done."

It was purple. I hated the thing. Purple was such a boring color, anyhow. Like a big, fat, lethargic plum that just sits there being fat. Ugly, bruised, unhealthful. Purple was a slow color, too— even took too long to say. But take blue for example. One quick sound. You can say it all in one motion— one gusty exhale. Nice and crisp, a living waterfall. But no. It had to be purple.
I crushed the small flower in my fist. I felt sick and fearful and dizzyingly angry all at once. Purple. The verdict had been decided: death. They didn't need her anymore.
The wind whipped around me, hissing threats in my stinging, frozen ears. It was cold by the sea, even though it was summer. I glared down at the ripping water from the top of the cliff. The hair on my exposed arms stood up in the chill of the wind, but I'd stood there in spite of it for a good half an hour, battling myself. I hadn't dressed for the cold: jeans and navy t-shirt. I'd dressed for school— that's where I was supposed to be. But just before I'd headed out the door to school, I glanced at the windowsill in the front hallway. And there it was: the purple flower. The code for death.
Ever since The Rebirth— since the overthrown of the American government by the Esenichs— they'd wanted Jules. She was special— she should've been dead. But she was too strong for that. And they wanted to know why. Every other day she'd been escorted to the recently renamed Washington Institute of Research (now the Grand Republic of Esenich Research Facility) for testing and questioning. They'd cut off her ties with almost everyone, especially me, but of course we had our own means of covert communication.
Then the news came. They had found something in Juliet. They wouldn't tell what, but it scared them— Jules could tell. They took her in for good, and wouldn't let her out to see anyone. But Jules is smart— and, well, special. She can do the impossible— she'd broken out last night, unnoticed, to see me. She said they would be holding a meeting the next morning— a trial, more like— to decide what to do with her. Like she was dangerous. Like she was a criminal. Like she deserved suffering for what she was.
So we'd decided on a code. Once Juliet's fate was decided, she would put a flower on my sill. Color was key. Yellow meant still undecided. Blue meant free and clear: they were letting her go. But purple— purple meant death. The simple fact that we had to plan for this option tells you a lot about what life is like in the two-year-old Grand Republic of Esenich.
I'd forgotten the cold. Staring down numbly at the wild Atlantic below, I wondered vaguely whether it would still be called the Atlantic a year from now, or whether they'd rename that, too. Then I wondered whether or not I'd still be alive in a year to find out, and I laughed out loud, bitterly. Jules certainly wouldn't be. I began to ponder how they'd kill her, and how soon, but then I felt like I was going to throw up, so I shoved it out of my mind.
The dark waves churned below me, just as did my love for her. As I stood looking over the cliff, I knew what had to be done.
Turning back, I ran all the way home. My family wouldn't be there. My father had fallen in combat during the invasion, and my grandfather, who'd lived with us until The Rebirth, had been executed for noncompliance shortly thereafter. It was just Mom and me now, but she'd be at work by this time, at the factories. Sprinting upstairs to my parents' room, I reached my father's nightstand and yanked open the drawer. I dug down to the very bottom and finally recovered his old gun and some ammo. Even after my breathing should have calmed down from running, I couldn't catch my breath. This was suicide. Skipping school was bad enough, under the new Esenich school policies. . . but this? This was insanity.
But really, how could I do any different? They'd probably kill me eventually, anyway. Better to go down fighting, while I still had the strength to fight. And regardless of the fuzziness of my brain, being muddled with fear and anger, one thing was clear: I was going to save Jules. Or at any rate, try. Or die trying.