[ WP ] Everyone on earth has an exact clone , and you 've just met yours .

It is a vast universe. And in this vast universe, there will always be another one of you. 
 
 No, they are not truly you, nor will the ever be. You are simply two seeds, two saplings set down to grow in different environments. They are not you. Merely a look at what you may have been. 
 
 Thomas Andrews was on his way home when he met his. 
 
 He was a successful businessman, Thomas, having inherited the family line of real estate, as well as a vast amount of property. A well off man, he led a stable life with a kind wife and two kids, passing through the days with a content nonchalance. All in all, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about Tom, except perhaps his talent in painting. 
 
 A gifted artist, Thomas had shown a great aptitude for painting in his youth. There were many who urged the boy to pursue art professionally, having seen the boy at work. His strokes were like the soft spring breeze, and the colours melted together like crayons forgotten in the afternoon sun. There was no doubt, people said, the boy was meant to become an artist. There was no doubt. 
 
 But Thomas, being the dutiful son, listened to his father and obediently stepped into the family line. He inherited the business, and gradually, as work piled up and life settled down, people forgot about the boy artist. His wife, Elaine, had never seen him touch a paintbrush. 
 
 The was no bitter disappointment or sense of loss, not really. Rather, Thomas was satisfied with the way things turned out, and knew that he owed his comfortable lifestyle to his current job and pathway. So, overall, there was no regret. 
 
 But as Thomas headed home in his usual frenzied rush, he saw something in the corner of his eye, and he stopped. 
 
 It was a street artist, working away on the hard concrete pavement with few tools, but undeniable skill. Thomas watched him. His strokes were like the soft spring breeze, and the colours melted together like crayons forgotten in the afternoon sun. Thomas watched him. 
 
 The man gazed up, finally noticing Thomas. `` Why, hello there!'' he called. 
 
 `` Good evening.'' replied Thomas. There was a bump of silence. 
 
 `` …this, artwork. It's…well, it's beautiful. You really are quite talented.'' he offered, after the man continued to look quizzically at him. 
 
 The man looked confused for a moment, before his face relaxed into a smile. `` Why, thank you, my good man. I *have* dedicated my life to painting, so I do hope that people can appreciate the value of my art. I'm Terry, and you are?'' 
 
 `` Thomas,'' replied Thomas. `` You know Terry, there's no denying that your work is magnificent, but I'm curious about how you acquire a steady source of income.'' 
 
 `` Oh, do n't worry about me, I get by.'' Terry laughed. 
 
 `` But do you live comfortably?'' he shot back. 
 
 `` My dear man!'' exclaimed Terry, clearly surprised. `` Did your parents never teach you anything? What is living comfortably if every moment is spent doing something you do not love?'' 
 
 There it was again, the silence. Thomas averted his eyes. 
 
 Terry looked at Thomas once more, kindly, but with a sense of melancholy. 
 `` We have the same eyes,'' he remarked, `` but yours are dull.'' A pause. 
 
 
 `` Well, good night, Thomas.'' 
 
 * 
 
 That night, he took up the paintbrush again. 
 
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 ( sorry I took a lot of liberty interpreting your prompt! )
