shoyo's sinta

i make scenarios with the help of chatgpt cause i'm not built like all the other writers here 😜

[shoyossinta]

masterlist

hi guys! here's my masterlist of works hehe

will try to keep it as updated as possible <3

as always, all my works are generated by chatgpt with my tweaks and additional input <3

karasuno

aoba johsai

nekoma

shiratorizawa

inarizaki

[just-a-random-bakugo-stan]

He literally just got revived from the literal dead, in excruciating pain, high as a kite, fighting the literal main villain of the show yet kept serving face the entire time. That’s my goat right here

[haazuli]

your associate oikawa, dabbling in different things

[drawnbymabel]

Yachi’s design deadlines 😩

[withlovenavi]

schweiden adlers!ushijima and college!you where you have posters of him over you dorm walls, he's your wallpaper in your phone, computer, etc... so everyone from college thinks you're just another fangirl and not have connected the dots that your high school boyfriend 'waka' is actually schweiden adlers' ace ushijima.

so, imagine everyone surprise when ushijima goes to your graduation and you were not, in fact, a crazy fangirl but actually his fiancé.

[shoyossinta]

When The World Kept Going

Summary: Eight years after everything, Oikawa Tooru sees you again — older, brighter, loved by someone else. And for a moment, he lets himself imagine what it would’ve been like if he had stayed, if he hadn’t chosen ambition over love. But he knows now: you’ve moved on. And all that’s left of the two of you is a memory dressed in kindness, a soft goodbye, and a wedding invitation that wasn’t meant for him. He didn’t lose you because you stopped loving him — he lost you because he couldn’t stay.

We Hug Now - Sydney Rose

Oikawa’s Point of View - The Epilogue

He didn’t expect to see you again. Not really.

Sure, he imagined it once or twice — late at night, on long flights, when the stars outside the plane window looked just enough like the ones you once wished on. Okay, maybe more than once… or twice.

He’d see your face in his mind and wonder what you’d say if you ever ran into each other. But it always ended the same: you smiled, he stayed quiet, and then the dream faded before it got too close to the truth.

But this wasn’t a dream. This was a quiet café in the rainy city of Paris — the city of love. This was your voice, still soft. Your smile, still tired yet extremely happy and genuine. Your eyes, still everything. And he didn’t know what to do with it.

He thought it would hurt more. It did hurt — of course it did — but not in the way he expected. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t immediate. It was dull. Lingering. Like the warmth that stays in your clothes after you’ve left the sun. The ache was familiar. Almost welcome. Almost.

You sat across from him, and for a moment, you weren’t strangers. But you weren’t the same, either.

You’d grown up. Learned how to speak without needing him to hear. Learned how to live without waiting for him to call. Learned how to love someone who wasn’t him. And he hated that he admired you for that — for the strength to keep going while he spent so long stuck between ambition and guilt.

When you stood to leave, he almost reached for your hand. Almost.

But instead, he watched the way you looked at him — that soft, heartbreaking expression that said, I’ll always care. But I’ve moved on and am happy and content with my life, just the way it is. And in that moment, he understood what the song playing faintly over the speakers was trying to say.

We don’t say ‘I miss you’ anymore. We don’t fight or stay up too late. We hug now.

That’s all that was left of you and him. A memory, dressed politely. Kind words. Soft goodbyes. A gentle nod instead of a kiss.

You didn’t reach for him. You didn’t ask him to stay. And somehow, that made him wish you had.

Later that night, lying alone in bed — he replayed every word you said.

Every silence between them. Every almost.

And he cried. Not in the dramatic, gut-wrenching way he used to. Not in anger. Just quiet tears for the boy he was, for the love he ruined, and for the version of you that once believed he’d come back whole.

He opened his phone.

Typed: “Did it hurt you to see me?”

Deleted it. Typed again:

“I wanted to tell you I still—”

Deleted that too.

Because he knew. You already knew. And you didn’t need him to say it. Not anymore.

His phone pinged a few seconds later, signaling a notification. Scared that he accidentally sent his message, he clicked your message faster than a speeding bullet. Well, maybe not faster because what he saw made him quite sure that a bullet was shot through his heart right then and there.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Miya Atsumu and (L/N) (Y/N) on …

Shocked, he hugged his pillow close, pretending for just one last time that it was him.

To him, it seemed like you got everything you wanted, and you’re not wasting time stuck here like him. You’re thinking that the past was just a small thing that happened for you to get where you are now, but the world ended when it happened to him.

[shoyossinta]

Eight Years and a Cup of Coffee

Summary: Eight years after Oikawa Tooru left, you see him again — not on a screen, but in a quiet café in Paris during the Olympics. The air between you is heavy with everything unsaid: what was, what could’ve been, and what’s already moved on. No confessions, no rekindling — just a soft, honest goodbye between two people who once loved deeply, and still do in quiet, untouchable ways. Some stories don’t end — they just stop being written.

About You - The 1975

You never expected to see Oikawa Tooru again, especially since it’s been eight years since he left.

You had already accepted that he belonged to a part of your life that no longer touched the one you were living now. He was a memory, folded neatly into the pages of your past — in the quiet of empty gyms, in songs that hurt too much to listen to, in silence that always felt just a little too loud.

But there he was.

Sitting by the window of a small, nondescript Parisian café on a rainy Thursday, halfway through a paperback and a coffee that had gone cold. He looked older. Softer, in some ways. Sharper in others. His hair was shorter now, messier. His posture more relaxed. The weight on his shoulders had shifted — not gone, but redistributed. You wondered how many battles had he fought since the last time you saw him. How many parts of himself he had learned to forgive.

You were tempted to walk past. You really did, but he looked up. And those eyes — familiar and strange all at once — landed on you with a kind of disbelief that made your heart stutter.

“Hi,” you mouthed, smiling awkwardly and waving at him. That was the only thing you could do because there was nothing else to say. Not at first.

He blinked once, then twice. Then smiled — faintly. “Hi.” Just one word, and you both felt that the air between you had changed.

—

You sat across from him. There were no dramatic confessions. No rush of memories pouring out. Just two people — both quieter now, older now — sitting across from each other in the middle of a life that kept moving without them.

“Should’ve expected I would run into you here. It is the Olympics after all,” you said, laughing softly. You should’ve known that you two would stumble across each other on the streets of Paris. It was the 2024 Olympics after all. 

“Yeah, you should’ve. I, on the other hand, didn’t know you’d be here. Became an athlete too? I know you looked up to me, but, damn, isn’t this a bit too much?” He joked, teasing you which elicited that laugh from you — the one he loved hearing every day.

“No, I’ll leave the athleticism to you and Iwa,” you said, laughing. “I’m just here to show support to loved ones, including him. Best friend things, you know?” As those words left your mouth, Tooru felt this pang in his chest that he didn’t understand. There was silence that followed after that.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me earlier,” you said after a beat, laughing.

He huffed a dry laugh. “You really think I could forget your face?” That pulled something soft out of you. Maybe grief. Maybe love. Maybe both.

“I almost didn’t come in,” you admitted. “Didn’t know if it would… ruin something.”

“To see me?” he asked gently, and there was something in his voice that made it hard to breathe.

“To remember,” you said, smiling sadly. “I’ve been trying so hard not to.”

Tooru looked down at his cup, running his finger along the rim. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

There was a silence — not awkward, but full. Heavy with everything you hadn’t said. Everything you couldn’t say. And then, softly: “I thought about calling you.” You looked at him.

“I thought about calling you,” he said, “Every time I won something. Every time I lost something. Every time Argentina didn’t feel like home. But I didn’t know what I’d say.” He met your gaze then, voice low, steady. “I didn’t want to hurt you more than I already had.”

“You did,” you said, not out of spite, just the truth. “But I forgave you a long time ago.”

That startled him. “Why?”

“Because I loved you,” you whispered, smiled softly. “And I think a part of me always will. But I think love isn’t a good enough reason to stay when someone’s meant to go.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he just stared at you, like he was trying to memorize the version of you sitting in front of him — the one who survived him. Who grew around the absence he left behind — the you after him.

“Do you think we’d still fit?” he asked, the words barely getting out.

You shake your head softly and raised your left hand, adorned with a huge sparkle. “I got engaged, Tooru. Just a few months ago actually. We’re planning to send out the invitations soon,” you said, smiling softly down at your ring.

Looking back at him, you shrug. “Plus, I think we outgrew what we were, Tooru,” you said. “We aren’t the same people we used to be and  never will be. But that doesn’t mean what we shared wasn’t real.”

The rain tapped gently against the windows. Outside, the world blurred in motion. Inside, the silence returned — not painful this time, but quiet. Settled. Familiar.

“I still dream about that night,” he admitted shamelessly. “In the gym. After the match.”

“I did too,” you said, nodding. “I used to wonder if we said goodbye too early. But, I guess life works in funny ways. After all, we ended up where we wanted to be right?” You, marriage and starting a family, and him, his career.

He looked down, his hands folded in front of him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Eventually, the barista called your name for your drink. You stood and he did too. You didn’t hug or reach for each other. You just stood there for a moment, facing the person who once held your whole heart in their hands.

“If you ever…” he started, but trailed off.

You smiled. “I won’t, but thanks for the offer.”

And just after you turned to leave, he softly whispered, “It was always about you.”

Some love stories don’t end. They just stop being written. But the ink never really dries.

And even now, when he thinks about you — in songs, in late nights, in the soft ache of remembering — you’re still there.

Not his anymore. But still his, in a way only he can understand.

[shoyossinta]

Still

Summary: Months after Oikawa Tooru left for Argentina, you both live separate lives under different skies — but neither of you ever truly let go. You don’t speak anymore. He never called. But in quiet rooms, on sleepless nights, you still find yourselves reaching for each other in silence — him with an unsent message, you with an old jersey folded by your bed. Some goodbyes aren’t loud. Some don’t even happen. And yet, they still echo.

Call Your Mom - Noah Kahan (very loosely based)

It had been months.

Maybe even longer — time had gone soft and slow since Tooru left. Sometimes, you marked the days by the dust that gathered on the gym doors or the way the sky looked when you passed the old vending machine outside Seijoh. It didn’t matter, not really. He was gone, and nothing could change that.

You watched his matches when you could, muted most of the time, as if keeping his voice from reaching you would somehow make the distance easier; make missing him any less difficult. He looked the best he’s ever been — stronger, faster, happier. He smiled more. Or at least,  he learned to smile better.

You often told yourself that you were happy for him; that he was doing better. And most days, you were. But there were nights like tonight — quiet, unremarkable, aching — where you missed the version of him that once cried into his knees on that gym floor. The one who let you hold his hand like it meant something. The one who asked, “What if I never come back?” and looked scared of the answer. The one who was, simply, here.

He hadn’t called since he left, not even once to say he arrived safely at Argentina.

You never expected or demanded him to, really. That wasn’t the deal. You told him to go — to leave, to run, to become. And you meant it.

But still.

Still.

There was this voice in your mind that often brought you down, saying “If he really cared about you, he would have called.”

Sometimes you’d find your thumb hovering over his name. The messages still sat there — the ones he sent in the beginning: pictures of the beach, videos of the court where he was training, a photo of his first Argentine asado. The messages had slowly trickled to a hard stop after that. No fight, no goodbye. Just nothing.

You never made a move to press him for more because, deep down, you knew. You were the chapter he had to finish before he could begin again. But God, sometimes you ached to be remembered by him. Just a simple “hi” would have sufficed. 

You lay down on your bed, his jersey folded beside you — old, worn, faded from being washed too much. You wondered if he still heard your voice in the back of his head before a serve. If he ever looked up from a match and searched the stands for you or have thought, She would’ve loved that play.

Staring at the ceiling , you wondered if he ever missed being that boy who lost. Because back then, at least, he knew he was loved with you reminding him every second you could get.

Across the ocean, in a too-bright apartment with white walls and a language he was still learning, Oikawa Tooru sat on the edge of his bed.

He had just won a match; he even made the winning set. And still — something in him felt empty.

He picked up his phone, scrolled to your name, stared and typed.

Hey. I watched that old match with Karasuno the other day. The one where we lost. The one where you sat beside me after. You were right. I’m better now. I just… hope you are too.

He paused, then deleted it. Instead, he locked the screen and set the phone down. Laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to get you out of his mind as if he was yearning for something he had promised himself not to reach for.

You didn’t know he almost called and he didn’t know that you would’ve answered. But somehow, even now — you were still holding space for each other in different time zones, under different skies, but still.

[shoyossinta]

AOBA JOHSAI

Oikawa Tooru

[11:23 P.M.]

You're Gonna Go Far, Tooru (Pt. 1)

Still (Pt. 2)

Eight Years and A Cup of Coffee (Pt. 3)

When The World Kept Going (Pt. 4 - Epilogue)

Hajime Iwaizumi

Matsukawa Issei

Hanamaki Takahiro

(more)

[shoyossinta]

You're Gonna Go Far, Tooru.

Summary: After Aoba Johsai’s heartbreaking loss to Karasuno, Oikawa Tooru sits alone in the gym with only the weight of defeat and the numbers 27 : 25 echoing in his mind. You find him there — exhausted, broken, and full of the kind of silence that says everything. It's not just a game he lost — it’s a version of himself. But some people are meant to go far, even if it means leaving the people who saw them at their worst behind.

A quiet, aching goodbye between two people who loved deeply — and let go gently.

You're Gonna Go Far - Noah Kahan

Karasuno : Aoba Johsai

27 : 25

The Aoba Johsai gym was dark, save for one overhead light buzzing faintly, shining on Oikawa Tooru who sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, hands limp above them, head rested on his arms. The scent of sweat and polished wood hung in the air like a memory for him. The numbers “27 : 25” haunting him every time he closes his eyes. His jersey clung to him, damp with effort — or maybe defeat, who knows?

You quietly stepped through the doors that opened with a slight creak, closing it behind you. Tooru didn’t make any move to see who it was. He didn’t need to because he knew it was you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured disdainfully.

“I know, and so should you,” you said, sitting down beside him anyway. Close, but not touching, as if it foreshadowed the distance that was already beginning to settle between you.

Silence pressed in — not uncomfortable, but full. Full of everything he wouldn’t say. Couldn’t say.

“I gave it all of me — everything. Down to the last breath,” he finally said. His voice wasn’t bitter; it was exhausted. “…And it still wasn’t enough… I still wasn’t enough,” he whispered.

This made you look at him — the boy who used to grin and go around like the world couldn’t catch with him. But, now, here he was — a shell of a man you once knew. His smile was gone and in its place was something older. To him, he hadn’t just lost a game. He had lost the version of himself who still believed that he could be one of the best; the version of himself who believed that hard work could beat talent. 

“I know,” you said carefully. “That’s the part that makes you human. And I’m so proud of you, Tooru.”

His eyes flicked to you, disbelief, grief and anger consuming him. “Proud? Of what? Losing?”

“Of trying,” you said. “Of refusing to be anything less than everything. Of wanting it so badly it broke you.” You shot him a sad smile before looking away, “Not everyone’s brave enough to do that, you know?”

With his jaw clenched and bloodshot eyes, he looked away. His face bare of the usual charm he wore like armour. “So what now?”

You hesitated, your breath catching in your throat. Then said, softly: “Now you run.”

He blinked, confused, waiting for you to explain.

“You go as far as you need to,” you continued,” to find the version of yourself who doesn’t need a scoreboard to feel worthy; a version of yourself who doesn’t need to base his worth as a player on beating talented players.”

“And what if I never come back? Or if I forget who I am?” He whispered.

Facing him and moving closer until your shoulders made the lightest touch, you smiled — soft, aching. “You won’t because I’ll be here if you ever need a reminder. And if you never come back, then I’ll know that you finally made peace with the part of yourself that couldn’t.”

The light flickered above you. He reached for your hand, and for a moment, intertwined it with his.

“You’re gonna go far, Tooru,” you said, resting your forehead against his. “But don’t leave just to escape what broke you. Leave to become the version of you who doesn’t have to break just to belong.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty; it was full. It was filled with goodbye — not spoken, not final, but real and understood.

And after he walked you to your door that night, he didn’t look back. Because sometimes, the greatest love is the kind that pushes you toward the person you’re meant to become — even if it means losing them along the way.

A/N: Like always, Chatgpt was used. Please don't come at me hhahahah Anyways, send requests or dms if you want to request a character or a song, whatever floats your boat ~

[shoyossinta]

[11:23 P.M.] - Oikawa Tooru

Oceans & Engines: Niki

The ocean was calm that evening, the way it never was when you were kids. Back then, it roared with the same arrogance Oikawa Tooru carried on the court — relentless, always pushing forward. Now, it whispered; its waves quietly kissing the shore, as if it too knew that tonight was the end of something.

You sat a few meters from the shore, clothes drenched from swimming, sand clinging to your skin, and a heavy ache clinging to your chest. Just a few inches away sat Tooru in the same state — hair unkempt, wet, his frame still and quiet. Both of you stared out at the vast ocean before you, tired — not physically, but in the way people are when they’ve been holding too much in for far too long.

“You’re really going,” you whispered, your voice soft and steady.

“Tomorrow,” Tooru nodded, not looking at you, his eyes lost in the waves.

The silence between you stretched endlessly — thick and heavy with all the words left unspoken. Words like stay, come with me, I love you. But neither of you had the right to ask anymore.

“I thought we’d have more time,” you murmured, your eyes focused on the sand.

“I did too,” he said, his gaze finally shifting to you. He looked at you with a sad smile — soft, intense, like he was memorizing every detail of your face, afraid time would steal it away.

“Don’t go forgetting me the second your feet touch Argentinian ground, you hear me, Mister?” you said with a smile — sad, loving, and laced with the shimmer of unshed tears as you looked at him.

“Never.”

Tooru gently scooted closer, his shoulder brushing yours as he settled beside you. Carefully, he guided your head to rest on him, and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

“I’ll always love you,” he whispered. “That’s why I’ll never forget you. But I guess… this is where we say goodbye.”

A/N: I'm avid reader of scenarios, headcanons, imagines, etc. here on tumblr, so I wanted to give it a shot in creating some. But, I ain't built like all the wonderful and creative writers here (and on other platforms) so I use ChatGPT and add my own tweaks here and there. It's just for fun anyways, so I hope that people won't be mad at me for using ChatGPT.