In the heart of Belonland, beyond the Whistleweed Forest and just east of the Gigglepuff Mountains, there stood a very ordinary public school—except it wasn’t ordinary at all. This was Puffridge Elementary, a school entirely staffed by balloon people.
Yes, you read that right. Balloon people.
Now, they weren’t the kind you tie to a string and hand to a child at a fair. These were living, floating, gently bouncing beings, translucent and colourful, with soft squeaky voices and impossibly expressive faces. Among them were two rather dedicated teachers: Heloon, a deep royal blue balloon with a slight tilt to the left, and Sheloon, a lavender balloon with a bow that somehow never popped, no matter how full she got.
They were the best of friends, though they’d never admit it out loud. That might make things weird in the staff lounge.
“Here,” Sheloon said one morning, her body pulsing with a visible breath, “take another pump.”
“Already full,” Heloon grunted, his surface tight, glossy, and stretching in places he didn’t know could stretch.
“Will you take another breath too?” Sheloon asked, balancing her third pile of homework on her stringy arms.
Reluctantly, Heloon leaned down, and with a slow, squeaky inhale—fwoooop—he sucked in another breath. His eyes bulged a little.
“That was for class 3Z,” he wheezed. “They’ve discovered sarcasm.”
Now, the thing about Belonland’s balloon teachers is that every task made them puff up a little more. Helping a struggling student? Inhale. Staying late to run drama club? Inhale. Mediating an argument between two Glitterpops during recess? Inhale.
And don’t even mention exam season. Some balloons got so full you could hear them creak down the hallway like rubbery freight trains.
The sad truth was that some didn’t make it.
The young ones, fresh from Ballooniversity, skin smooth and unused, would inflate too fast.
They came in starry-eyed, clutching lesson plans glittered with idealism and hope. Within weeks, they’d be puffed and placed in Class 6R — the “Resilients.” The hardest kids. The most forgotten. The ones who needed the most love.
They’d teach with passion. But too fast, too full.
Pop.
One afternoon, Heloon and Sheloon hovered in the Staff Lounge (which was really a converted janitor’s closet filled with lemon-scented towels and a radio permanently stuck on elevator jazz). The mood was tense.
“Mr. Peep popped today,” Sheloon whispered, barely able to look at Heloon.
“No…” Heloon’s voice trembled. “He was only here six months.”
“He tried so hard. Took in too much. He was mentoring the newlings and running the balloon choir…”
They floated in silence. The jazz radio sputtered, then switched to static. Fitting.
“But you know what he said to me last week?” Sheloon asked. Her surface shimmered, reflective in the dusty light.
“What?”
“He said, ‘Sheloon, sometimes the best thing you can do is not breathe in.’ Not knowing that he wouldn’t follow his own advice.
Heloon blinked. “Not breathe in? But that’s… sacrilegious!”
“No,” Sheloon said, puffing gently, “it’s survival.”
So they tried. They tried to breathe out more. When they reached home—tiny apartments just above the Frothmallow Bakery—they would sit in silence, let the air out slowly, safely, in long sighs. Pfffzzzzzzzzzz…
Heloon started knitting with a pin. (He was very careful.)
Shelon took to writing letters she’d never send, addressed to her past self: “Dear Sheloon of Year One, say no to the fifth committee.”
And it helped. Bit by bit.
One day, they were called to the Gymnasium of Big Feelings. Principal Plumpkin stood at the podium, her balloon body inflated just enough to suggest she’d actually been listening to staff complaints.
“We’re piloting a new system,” she squeaked. “One hour a week—protected time. No meetings. No emails. Just… exhale time.”
Gasps echoed around the gymnasium. One teacher fainted (but she fell very slowly).
Shelon and Heloon looked at each other, their cheeks puffing into hopeful little half-smiles.
Weeks passed. There were still pops. Still tears. But there were also laughs. New traditions. Heloon hosted “Silent Sway Yoga” for overstretched balloons. Sheloon taught “Selective Inhaling 101.”
They started seeing new teachers float a little lighter.
And one sunny Friday, as the bell rang and the sky turned a soft marmalade orange, Heloon asked:
“Will you walk with me to the Ridge of Release?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Sheloon grinned.
They drifted up the hill, let out long, happy sighs into the air, and watched as dozens of balloon teachers slowly joined them.
All of them releasing. Just a little. Together.
The moral of the story is this:
A balloon too full pops.
A balloon too empty flops.
But a balloon with just enough room to breathe?
That balloon can float for miles.
So next time you see a teacher, remember:
Maybe what they really need… is a little space to exhale.
